


Dear Desperado

by idealizedhopeless (crucialcomatose)



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom, Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Development, Choking, Drama, Expeditionism, F/M, Hate Sex, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Smut, Teasing, Toxic Relationships, Toxic Romance, a spin on the events of Knives Out, but they don’t get together IMMEDIATELY y’know, erotic asphyxiation, follows the plot of the film at a certain point with major changes, it’s not a slow burn, lowkey spoilers for the film in later chapters, moderate burn?, skip to chapter 5 and read on if you just want smut!!, the ending might be tragic depending on the way you look at it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucialcomatose/pseuds/idealizedhopeless
Summary: A story of moral corruption between two characters with a peculiar, undeniable, and irresistible attraction toward each other, or how Ransom Drysdale came to bethat way,basically.Told from a dual perspective, and starts off two years before the events of Knives Out.*title is from Rihanna’s 2016 song, “Desperado.”
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale & Original Female Characters, Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. Something to Cure My Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> *** 𝖣𝖨𝖲𝖢𝖫𝖠𝖨𝖬𝖤𝖱 / 𝖳𝖶 ***  
> 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼/𝗍𝗎𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾/𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌.  
> 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌.  
> 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾:  
> \- 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅/𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 "𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖦𝖾𝗍 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖪𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗈𝖽" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗎𝗆.𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗅𝖾.  
> \- 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒/𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗅𝖾. --> medium.com/love-emma/how-to-get-consent-without-killing-the-mood-f851710f4f50  
> \- 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉.  
> \- 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 1-800-799-7233 𝗈𝗋 1-800-787-3224 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖳𝖳𝖸, 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾.𝗈𝗋𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤𝖨𝖲 𝗍𝗈 22522.  
> 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗆 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌/𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾.  
> 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: Before the Storm

#####  _there’s something wrong with me_

#####  _but you know what?_

#####  _ain’t nobody gonna change me_

##### ~ "Killer Shangri-Lah" by Pshycotic Beats ~

###  **—** _Quinn_ **—**

**June 2017**

_“Why are you here?”_

There’s a certain tinge to his tone, a weird, unruly Boston accent slash Midwesterner mix that I can’t put a finger on. His ‘you’ could easily be a ‘ya’, and his ‘here’ could easily be an ‘ere’. 

“I’m looking for someone to cure my boredom,” I say, halfway lying, halfway telling the truth.

I’m looking for something to get my blood pumping, and if I can lower his defenses _just enough,_ I might get lucky. 

It shouldn’t be too difficult. 

I saw him earlier in my bar, _Delicate Embers_ , chatting up a few girls here and there, with no luck. They seemed interested enough after a bit of pull and push, convincing on his side that he deserved their attention, but he seemed bored mere minutes after they started talking back to him. 

I’d fault him, but I’d be a hypocrite. Sometimes it’s just more fun to test the waters, see how far you can go with people, rather than get something concrete out of them. Maybe he’s back here for the same reasons as me. 

He pushes himself off the wall with his shoulders, stalking over to me as I sip at the rum and coke nestled in my palm. His biceps bulge from his fitted emerald green sweater as he moves, twisting the scattered silver rings on his fingers. He’s gotta be six foot something, six foot two at most, as he’s taller than my five foot nine, but not by a lot. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, crushing the blissful distance between us, disobeying the faulty promise Mikey made to me before I came back here: _“There’s someone back there, but they shouldn’t bother you.”_ He’s up against the wall next to me now, back flush with the dull gray brick just like mine.

“Eve.” 

He grunts, and I suppose that’s his response. 

We sit in silence, him flicking at and fiddling with the watch on his wrist, a Rolex with a fuckton of diamonds, one leg propped up against the wall. His flexed thigh twitches as he shifts, the dark gray slacks that adorn his legs tight, borderline unforgiving. “This is the part where you tell me your name, dude.” 

“Ransom,” he says dismissively, teeth rolling over his bottom lip as he looks at me, then looks away. _Yeah, right_. 

“There’s no way your name’s Ransom, and there’s no way in hell you’re convincing me it is.” 

He hums before moving in front of me, pulling his wallet out. “Says right there.” He points out his name on his driver’s license, underlining the words with a single finger before stuffing the wallet away in his left back pocket. _Easy access._

“Drysdale, huh? Feel like I’ve seen that name somewhere before.” 

“Thrombey Real Estate, probably. My father.” 

“Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen that woman in the commercials.” I pause. “She seems…” 

“Delusional? Drugged out?” _Well, since you forced it out of me._ His abruptness almost makes me laugh, but I shove it down. 

“We’ll go with that.” 

He chuckles, a light, but hearty noise that sounds like it starts in his belly. “You said you were bored?”

“Can’t find anyone interesting.” 

“Eh, people fuckin’ suck. ‘Specially ‘round here.” He clears his throat as he moves in closer to me, a subdued smile tipping the corner of his mouth. His eyes scan the length of my body, peering at me through his eyelashes. “You’re not half bad.”

“You barely even know me.”

“Maybe,” he laughs, backing off a bit, but not much. Not nearly enough. “You’ve been back here, though, shorter than I have. Just starin’ at the sky, ‘n shit.”

“And what about it?” 

“How bored do you have to be to just _stare_ at shit?”

“I’ll have you know,” I say, nudging him jokingly, watching as he teeters back to his feet. “Staring at shit can be fun. You’re probably just staring at the wrong shit, pal.” 

“Eh, maybe. I’ll give you that one.” He flashes a slick and sly little smirk that infects his face smoothly. _How charming._

“Why are you talking to me?” 

“Oh, come on. You know you’re gorgeous.” _Aww, how nice._

He clearly just wants something out of me, but I’ve always been told I have a face for modeling in magazines—I never saw the point. It’s nice to fly under the radar, and while I do look in the mirror and like what I see, I also like that I’m not a stand out beauty. It makes it harder for people to recognize you, which can be a blessing sometimes. 

_Pretty_. That’s what Mikey always calls me when he smokes up all my weed, even though I need it for my migraines. 

“I do, actually, but I appreciate the compliment.” I pause, ready to stop talking and hoping he’ll follow along, but his answer doesn’t satisfy me. “No, really, though. I saw you earlier in the bar talking to anyone and everyone, but you landed on no one. So…”

He smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “Say you’ll come home with me,” he says, cutting straight to the chase. 

“I would, but I don’t wanna be a liar.” 

He’s attractive, and I’ll go ahead and say it now. Cut jawline, soft, piercing eyes that are either blue or green or hazel—either way, they shine—hair long enough to grip, but not to the point where it looks sleazy, nice, tight body—the works. I could say _'sure’_ right now based on all of that, but I like seeing him try. It’s fun. 

Not to mention he’s relatively dull, too slick-talking for my taste when my vibrator could do just as good a job without all the hassle. 

“Oh, come on. Lying is the most fun a girl can have.” 

“Without taking her clothes off.” A smile plays on his lips, resulting from a light, breathless laugh. 

Have you seen that movie _Closer?_ It’s not the best of films, but it brings up a great conversation about cheating _._

_Don’t shoot me, let me finish, alright?_

I’ve thought about it in previous relationships, cheating. Just for the adrenaline rush, just to see what I’d feel like afterward: full of guilt, maybe, or excitement. Who knows. 

It seems too cruel to break someone's heart like that. Too harsh, too permanent, too fucking _rude._

So, I stick to stealing, and barely even that. I picked up a few tricks here and there from when I lived with my mom in Indiana, and when I needed an escape and a means of getting food on the table. 

I’m good at it. A little _too_ good. 

Who knew the scourge of pickpocketing could be so grave. 

Me. I knew. 

I‘m fairly certain he’ll be a target, maybe not if he starts saying something interesting, but with the way things are going right now, he doesn’t have that working for him. 

He draws closer, caging me in on one side with his arm as he props himself up against the wall. His wrist shines in the early summer dusky light, the diamonds from his Rolex sparkling. He’s leaning forward, closer to me, closing the distance between us until his face is mere inches away from mine. 

I think I’ll have to dodge a kiss from him, but he moves to my ear instead, his warm breath caressing my skin. 

“We can do that, too,” he says, voice smooth and low. 

When he leans back, I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. _Boring_. I’ve officially grown tired of it. 

So, I try something else. Something to get my blood pumping. 

Something to _test the limits._

Reaching out my right hand, I whisper, “Can I?” and wait for him to nod before settling my fingers on the side of his torso. His body is firm, a bit firmer than I expected, with the soft material of his assumably cashmere sweater a nice juxtaposition. 

I guide his body closer to mine, tapping my fingers at his waist, and slithering them down to his backside. A quick, imperceptible check tells me I have the right side, so I move forward again. 

“Really?” He nods. “And who says I’d have fun doing that with _you_?” I tease, messing with the belt wrapped around his waist, letting my fingers dance against it. 

“What?” His eyes are on my lips, piercing a hole with his gaze. My stomach tightens at this look on his face, a smirk tipping the corner of his mouth, bright teeth peeking from under full, pink lips—lustful, _murderous_. _I barely even know the guy_. “You don’t think I could make you _scream?_ ” _Jesus Christ._

That catches me off guard, so I swallow thickly, licking my lips. “Uh…” 

He shifts, _finally,_ and I use the opportunity to slide his wallet from his back pocket, letting the adrenaline rush that floods my brain make me dizzy. Securing the small, black, leather square between my fingers, I use my free hand to guide his lips closer to mine, entangling my fingers with the hair at the base of his neck. 

“Don’t take my word for it, though.” His tone is deep, dark, saturated with seduction, and duplicity. His eyes scan my face, _distracted,_ so I slide his wallet into my back pocket. “It’s always better to learn from experience.” _Cocky sonuvabitch._

“Does this usually work for you?” I whisper, hovering my lips right by his before I look into his eyes. The mischievous glint that lie there before has been snuffed out, replaced by something I don’t recognize. Irritation. Defeat, maybe. 

He smirks with an open mouth, swiping his tongue across his porcelain white teeth. “Usually, yeah.” Sniffing, he backs off me, removing his arm from the wall, and instead stuffing both his hands into his front pockets. “When I don’t get annoyed.” 

His wallet feels heavier, almost like it’s burning a hole in the pocket of my pants. My stomach is burning, too—bubbling and fizzing with energy, startled like a can of Coca-Cola that’s been dropped on the sidewalk. _Thrown_ , maybe. I don’t know. I’m high, dizzy, and buzzing with all of this adrenaline, filled with the kind of feeling you get before you ask someone to prom or steal for the first time. _And this isn’t even my first time._

Ransom has backed up, away from me, his charm dialed down to three, even though it was just at eleven. His Rolex peeks out from underneath his sleeve, tempting me. 

I take the bait. 

“Do you have the time?” I’m pushing my luck. I know I am. But I can’t stop. Sliding my hand to my back pocket, I hold down the power button on my phone and blindly swipe across the screen to power it down before pulling it out. 

“Your phone’s in your hand.” 

“Dead.” I press the power button to convince him, showing off the steadily black screen. He shrugs. 

He presents his wrist to me, showcasing the shiny, leafy green face encased in tiny diamonds. It’s pretty, I suppose. Not something I would wear, though, simply because it screams _‘rob me!’_ and I wouldn’t wanna draw that attention to myself. 

Maybe he’ll miss it. 

It doesn’t matter. He’ll have it back tomorrow if he comes looking. 

“This is really nice,” I say, reaching my free hand out, sliding my fingers underneath his wrist. The clasp on these is difficult to undo, but distracting him has proven to be simplistic enough. 

“It better be. Shit was fuckin’ expensive.” 

I look up at him, just for a bit, getting him to take his eyes off his wrist. He squints at me, scanning my face. 

I toss my phone forward, cringing as it hits the pavement, but hoping my Otterbox is more than enough to save it from cracking. “ _Fuck_ , I’m sorry.” He pulls his arm away, sliding his wrist right out of the Rolex. 

As he picks up my phone, I pocket his watch. 

Shocks, all cool and hot, prickle across my skin, making me feel alive. 

“Clumsy,” he says—rather, _whispers—_ a smirk growing across his face. I swallow. We’re standing too close. 

I need to leave. 

“It was nice meeting you, Hugh Ransom Drysdale,” I say, “but I’ve gotta get going. Maybe I’ll see you around, or something.”

“I doubt it.” 

Smiling, I turn on my heels and push through the back door, speed walking against the spruce wood floors of the bar. 

“Hey, wait—”

A cool breeze hits me when I shove the front door open, grinning at the frigid air against my skin, the moonlight soothing my nerves. 

Tomorrow I’ll return his things, drop them off with Mikey at the bar. I have no use for them, anyway. 

The sky overhead changes as nighttime draws closer, blues and purples turning to blacks and grays, casting a dull and dreary darkness over anything street lamps can’t touch. 

Maybe a storm is coming. 

Only time will tell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's two killing eve references in this if you're keen lmao sorry not sorry


	2. Macabre

#####  _i never lost control_

#####  _you're face to face_

#####  _with the man who sold the world_

#####  ~ "The Man Who Sold The World" by David Bowie ~

### — _Ransom_ — 

The bitch stole my wallet. 

There has to be some saying about being too goddamn cocky, but I don't fuckin' know it 'cause I'm not too goddamn cocky. 

Shoving my way back into the bar, I uselessly search for the girl, doing a quick scan of any and everybody sitting, standing, dancing, _whatever the fuck,_ until the front door opens, and she goes sauntering out. 

I don't need it necessarily, I suppose—there's maybe one-hundred in there at most, plus my license, and credit cards that I can cancel—but the fact that she got a leg up on me 'cause I was distracted is… _somethin'._

Somethin' that's gonna interrupt my fuckin' sleep tonight. 

I dash after her, shoving the door open. She flashes me a smile just as I catch up, my feet thundering against the sidewalk, fingers about to reach out and touch her when she backs into the street and causes a car to go skidding to a stop to avoid slamming into her. _What the fuck?_

Spinning on her heels, she glances up at the sky and keeps on moving, not caring about the cars that whip past her, or the ones that barely stop before their steering wheels cast them out of the way of her body. 

_Gone_. And _reckless._

Sitting down at the bar, I wave my hand to order a whiskey stiff and watch as the Mike fills up the tiny glass, no taller than four of my fingers. He's tending today since it's a Friday, filling glasses and mixing drinks, wiping down the counter in between customers, collecting his tips. 

"Mikey," I say, leaning forward on my haunches, thrumming my fingers against the counter. He glances at me before I continue: "You know that girl that came out back?" 

"What'd she look like, fella?" He has a subdued country accent, one of the ones you hear in movies rather than real life. He reminds me of Matthew McConaughey, almost, from that voice down to his looks. For a twenty-nine-year-old, he looks a tad bit older. 

"Black hair in braids that went down her back, caramel skin. Had this cardigan with a fuckton of flowers on it, some shit like that." 

"Quinn?" _Quinn?_

"Sure. Yeah."

"' _Sure'_?"

"Said her name was Eve." 

"She does that." He nods like what he said wasn't absolutely ridiculous. _What?_

"You're tellin' me this girl goes around tellin' people the wrong name? Just left and right, no fucks given?"

"Maybe it's to ward off people like you, man." He chuckles as he tosses the rag he was cleaning with over his shoulder, stalking over to face me. "Anyways. Whaddya want with ‘er?" 

"Number."

"Nope."

"Where does she work, then?"

"Why are you so curious? If she wanted somethin' to do with ya', wouldn't she have given you ‘er info' erself?"

"She stole my fuckin' wallet."

Mike laughs, _fuckin' laughs,_ just snickering away like something's funny. He goes back to cleaning now, giving himself time to respond to that. 

I could kill him. 

I'm not gonna, but I could. 

He's not afraid of the push and pull with me like most people are. It's easy to deceive when you want something, and even easier for me since I find the shit to be so fun. Creating and portraying an alternate personality that turns out to be everything someone expects you to be is _freeing._ It's a shame I didn't discover that until I turned eighteen, which was about ten years ago. 

The shit does get tiring, don't get me wrong. 

With Mike, though, I don't have to turn on the charm 'cause he just _doesn't give a shit,_ which is probably—nah, _definitely_ —the only reason he's stuck around for this long. That, and he rarely manages to get on my nerves. 

Right now is an exception, though, 'cause I'm starting to get a little irritated. 

"Your watch is gone, too, it seems," he finally says, not even looking at me. 

I stare down at my wrists, scrutinizing the paler skin on the left one where my watch typically resides. _Bare._

I don't know whether to be pissed off or impressed. 

_Let's go with an even mix of both._

"Just fuckin' tell me where I can find her, Mike," I say, getting a little bit too loud, but I don't give a shit at this point. 

She took off with my wallet _and_ my watch, and it wasn't until she was out of my sight that I noticed. _I gotta stop thinkin' with my dick._

I don't even know what I want with this girl. Sure, she was attractive, and taking her home with me would've occupied my time for the night, but I could easily pick up someone right now if I wanted to. 

But her? She distracted me, _twice,_ and took my shit. 

I'm mad. _Sue me._

"She works here, actually. Only on Saturday nights, though."

"So, she'll be here tomorrow, then?"

"Today is Friday. Which would make tomorrow Saturday, bud." 

"Don't be a smartass."

"Don't be a dumbass, then." 

— + —

Quinn makes eye contact with me as soon as I stroll in, sliding my sunglasses off, and tucking them into my collar. She smiles as if nothing's happened as if she didn't fuckin' steal from me yesterday night. 

Walking over to her, I stand behind the counter, not yet taking a seat. She's tending to other patrons, and when she's done, she comes over to me. "So we meet again, Ransom. Maybe it's fate. But I sincerely doubt that based solely on you wearing sunglasses at eight P.M., so..." _Hilarious_. 

"Nah. I was looking for you, actually. Knew you were working today." I thrum my nails against the counter, leaning on my elbows as she stands with crossed arms. 

"Wow, how... _romantic_ ," she says. "Well, you found me. What do you want? Number? Date?" 

"Why'd you take my shit, _Quinn?"_

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, letting a smile tip the corners of her mouth. "Lots of guys lose things, _Ransom._ I suggest you head back to Mikey's office to look through the lost ‘n found before making baseless accusations, 'kay?" 

Don't ask why, but the _"'kay?"_ pisses me the fuck off.

She's right. I can't prove it, and it's not like I planned on turning her in anyway, _like the police would do shit about it,_ but that's the goddamn problem, isn't it? That she got one over on me, and nothing is tying her to it. No hard evidence _That's_ how fuckin' slick about it she was. 

It's admirable, almost. _Almost_. "Just say you fuckin' took it, babe, and we'll move on."

"Don't call me babe, _babe._ " 

"Don't be a bitch—"

"' _Bitch,'_ really? Owwie, my feelings." She turns away from me to tend to more drink orders, pouring up a line of vodka shots. "So, what? You're nice when you want something, but an asshole every other time?"

"Precisely." 

She huffs before she laughs, leaning over the counter to face me, her cleavage even more apparent at this angle. "Mike has your watch and wallet. I have nothing for you. He's back in his office."

"Don't want the watch."

"The wallet, then." 

"Nah." 

"Then leave, big boy." Gesturing to the door, Quinn goes back to tending, pouring shots, and flirting with dudes who think they have a chance with her. _Does anyone?_

"I'm just curious," I say, finally taking my seat at the bar, keeping my gaze on her as she works. She rolls her eyes _again, and I don't know why the fuck she keeps on doing that,_ before serving up one more drink and making her way back over to me. "You told me your name was _Eve_." 

"Yeah, so we could avoid all of this. But look where we are." A crease develops in her brow, eyes narrowing. "Wait. You know Mikey, don't you?" 

"We went to college together." 

"Well. Isn't that swell. If you'd have told me that, we wouldn't be in this situation 'cause I wouldn't have taken your things." _There it is. How endearing._ "But there doesn't have to be a situation at all if you just _go._ Watch and wallet or not. I don't care at this point." 

Quinn does a round of the bar and collects her tips, stuffing them into the little pocket at the front of her apron. Her hair falls over her shoulders in a ponytail, still effortlessly reaching her mid-back, even though it's a _high_ ponytail. All that hair's gotta be heavy as shit. 

I dunno if she's got a push-up bra on, or if her tits just look like _that_ , but they're at full attention in this tight, white tank top. If we're being analytical, it's probably for the tips, which have been piling up in droves: twenties and fifties most of the time. _Hmph._

"Is that what you do to _cure your boredom,_ so to speak? You steal?" 

"Eh. It's more akin to _borrowing_ now, isn't it? Let's be fair here." 

"Mikey doesn't mind, then?" 

"Mikey," she says, "doesn't give a fuck what I do, as long as it doesn't hurt business. And it doesn't. So, _fuck off._ " 

I don't budge. 

Sighing, she stands in front of me, putting her job on pause for the moment. She looks at me, cutting her eyes down, resting her hands on the small of her back. "Y'know, I did some research on you when I got home," she says, studying my face. I let my eyes linger the length of her body: subtle, but noticeable hips that taper into her waist, thighs a bit on the fuller side, and toned arms that make it look like she works out. She snaps in my face to garner my attention again, despite her never having lost it. 

"Fascinating. And what did you find?" 

"Civil infractions, and shit. Coupla DUIs, drug charges. Not surprising," she pauses, looking me up and down with a side-eye. "But, then I found out who your granddad is. That _huge_ mystery novel guy." She smirks. "I wonder, I _really_ wonder how much _you_ know." 

"About?"

"Murder. Crimes of passion." She chuckles as she pours another drink and slides it to the man next to me. Grabbing my wrist, she tugs me forward, making me lean over the bar to meet her. Our faces are mere inches apart, foreheads almost bumping. "Like, I wonder," she starts, her voice low, barely a whisper. "Could you kill _me_ and make it look like an accident?" 

_What the fuck?_

Now, what the fuck am I even supposed to say to that? 

To be frank, I don't know why I'm here. I was fuckin' _fuming_ last night, worse than when I lose to my granddad in _Go,_ but now the anger's died down, replaced with the same shit she was talking about. _Boredom._

Now, I just wanna make her squirm, and she's practically _begging_ me to.

"That's oddly macabre," I whisper, not even trying to stifle the smile spreading across my lips. It's funny, I guess, _to a certain degree._ "Finding out about your medical history would be the first step; diabetes, heart conditions, asthma, hypertension, whatever. Family histories work, too. But we'll take asthma for example." 

She leans back from me as I speak, sliding her hand away, but I don't let her. I pull her forward, making her stumble as a single brow raises, a tiny smile growing. "Finding out your hobbies would be next. Connecting _that_ hobby to _that_ asthma, then formulating a plan would be easy. You'd be amazed at how many people die from asthma _a year."_

Her jaw flexes before her eyes dart down to my lips, then back up at me. "Would I?" she whispers. 

"Mhm," I murmur, nodding. She nibbles on her bottom lip, making it a tad redder. 

I keep going: "Let's say you like to paint. It'd be a shame if you started inhaling the wrong fumes, wouldn't it? Slowly killin' you," I say, slowing down, getting closer to her with every word, "makin' you suffocate in your own home, your lungs crumplin' up in your chest, depriving you of air until you pass out without the medics around." 

Her throat bobs as she swallows, licking her plump lips. 

I start laughing, just for the dramatic effect, light, little chuckles spilling past my mouth. "Who'd find you first, Quinn?" I drop my voice. _"If anyone."_

That placid smile falls as she snatches her hand away from mine, rubbing her now reddened wrist. My grip might've been getting tighter. Who knows. 

She shivers, shaking her head, appearing to knock herself out of some trance. "That word looks so pretty coming outta your mouth. _Macabre._ "

Ignoring me, she goes back to cleaning and serving, delivering the occasional apology to people who were waiting for service. It seems we're done talking, and since she didn't have anything smart to say back to me, I don't need to be here anymore. 

I fish out my _new_ wallet from my back pocket and leave a one-dollar bill on the bar, just to be an asshole. She's got enough tips, anyway. 

Slipping down from my chair, I hear her call out, "Mikey!" as I'm on my way to the front door, ready to leave all this bullshit behind. "I'm taking my break!" I don't get much further before she calls my name, too. "Hey, Ransom?" _What could the bitch want now?_

"I don't want your number, Quinn," I say, not turning around, blindly guessing. 

"No, no. I know. You weren't gonna get it anyways, but maybe you'd like this back? It's just sooo pretty. Doesn't seem like you'd wanna part with it." 

I swear to _God_ if that's not the watch from yesterday. _I swear to God._

Turning around, I focus my gaze on the tiny, silver cylinder held up between her pointer and middle finger. I have to resist the urge to look down at my hand, already knowing that one of my rings will be gone. Maybe even more. I wouldn't put it past her at this point. 

She smiles, cocking her head to the side, staring at me—maybe _through_ me, if I'm honest—before heading out to the back of the building, and I don't know what to make of any of it. 

I could fucking _kill_ her _._ Strangle her to death in this goddamn bar, no second thoughts about it. Wouldn't even try to make it look like a fuckin' accident.

She'd probably smile as she'd die, the masochist. 

It's either march out back to her right now, not knowing what'll happen if I don't keep my temper in check, or say _'fuck it,'_ and just _go home,_ keep my distance. 

The latter sounds so dull. So _boring._

She has one foot out the doorway as I snatch up her wrist in my hand, stifling a smile when she flinches and lets the ring clatter to the ground. Her gaze flickers down to it before she looks back at me, then at my grip on her wrist. She _hehe'_ s. _Oh, my God._ "Oopsy daisy." 

"This," I say, letting my fingers dig into her smooth and soft flesh, already knowing they'll leave a mark. "This turns you on, doesn't it?" _Sure as hell seems like it._

I can't decide if I feel the same just yet, as she's got a way of making me more _angry_ than _excited_ , and I don't know what to make of that, either. At the very least, I'm entertained, and at the very most, I'm at my fuckin' wit's end. 

"You? Turn me on?" Wandering eyes in the bar are on me, and I can feel them boring into my skin, trying to figure me out, so I calm down, loosening my grip on her wrist before kicking open the back door with a foot, and ushering us both out. Her face falls, a blank expression decorating it when I drop her wrist, pinning her against the wall. "Try your hardest."

"Beg me not to do it right now," I say. "Not to kill you." 

"Oh, you'd like that, _wouldn't you?_ " She licks her lips, the corners of her mouth tipping up in a wide grin. " _Please, Ransom! I have so much to live for! I have kids, two of them, both adopted, waiting for me to get home, a loving wife, a mom with cancer! Don't kill me! I'll do whatever you want!"_ Giggles, fucking _giggles_ cascade out of her mouth, past her lips, dispersing in the air in front of us. 

The look in her eye glimmers as the smile from her laughter fades, mischief from before mutating into something utterly sinister, something that makes my mind wander. "All I've to live for is myself, which is more than enough. So take my life from me if you'll feel good about it. _This_ is all the begging you'll get from me, sweets." 

Her begging is merely a fuckin' taunt. _She would._ "Come on. Unless you're too pussy and don't wanna add _murder_ to your long list of crimes. Do it already, _Hugh."_

My first name outta her mouth makes me shiver. 

"Fuck you," I mutter, turning her wrist loose, backing off, regretting my decision to chase her down. Having the bits and pieces of info about her that I do, she probably wanted me to do all this bullshit, and I didn't notice that, either. 

Maybe it's me. Perhaps I _am_ a dumbass, same as Mikey said last night. 

"Violence doesn't make you scary." She smoothes her clothes, then tightens her ponytail as I back away from her. "Don't get me wrong; for some, it definitely does. But you? It just makes you a dickhead with an inflated ego." 

Today demonstrates the importance of impulse control 'cause right now, she's taunting the everliving _fuck_ outta me, and it's taking every waking nerve, every fuckin' muscle in my body not to act on it.

Well, that, and the wrath of my mother, and potential backlash from my grandfather. I just can't be bothered. Too much is at stake, and it seems like all she wants to do is fuck with me. 

She fishes something out of her pocket—a blue Altoids tin and a lighter—before producing what appears to be a joint between two thin fingers. "If we're gonna play this game…" she mumbles, the joint now between her lips, subtle _fft-fft_ of the lighter preceding a bright orange flame. Her chest rises as she inhales a drag, stuffing the lighter back in her pocket, puffing the smoke out. "...I'll let you know in advance that with me? It's chess. _Not_ checkers." 

I've decided. It's pure anger, not excitement. 

I stay silent, not having anything to say to that, rather, not having anything _smart_ to say to that. The words on the tip of my tongue would make me sound like a fuckin’ idiot. 

_Go fuck yourself._ _Shut the fuck up._ _You talk too goddamn much. You’re goddamn insane._

Yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah.

“Whatever, Quinn.” I’m exhausted.

"Aww, did I strike a nerve?" I glare at her before taking off, yanking the back door open, hoping I'll never see this bitch again. This shit is not good for my temper, and it sure as hell isn't worth it. 

"I'll see you around, Ransom." 


	3. Wretched Things Against a Wall

#####  _i’m way too numb_

#####  _it’s way too dumb_

##### ~ “Goosebumps” by Travis Scott ~

###  _— Quinn —_

It's rainy tonight, thundering outside, and I'm fucking _bored_. 

Sleep isn't helping, which isn't fucking surprising.

My head has been throbbing since 7:00 P.M., so I figured I'd hit the hay early tonight after blazing up, but I suppose the universe has different plans for me 'cause I've been tossing and turning for the past hour, suffering. I can't even feel the headache anymore. 

It's all because my mind is swimming, thinking about _things._

Specifically about the way Ransom's grip tightened on my wrist over a week ago when he started talking about murder. The thought makes me feel _good_ if we're putting things in layman's terms. Good is an understatement, but I quite like understatements. 

Being honest, however, would be me telling you that the look in his eyes _alone_ turned me on.

Being overly honest would be me telling you that it's the only thing I think about when I fuck myself now, the pressure of his grip, the words coming out of his mouth. 

_"Who'd find you first, Quinn? If anyone."_

_"Beg me not to kill you."_

_"This turns you on, doesn't it?_ "

_Bingo._

Keeping the ring he refused to pick back up was likely a poor decision, but it's pretty, and I enjoy looking at it. 

Maybe I'm crazy. 

In the moment, it felt like there was something underneath that charming, arrogant facade slipping through, something someone's worked their ass off to conceal. _Obviously not hard enough._ Maybe that weird-ass mother of his, who seems too cooped up with Botox injections and narcotics to recognize the bullshit going on around her. 

_Ugh, what a life._

That stupid-ass _Thrombey Real Estate_ commercial I keep seeing on TV with all the dramatic slashes of a knife and dumb-ass stabbing puns makes me want to jump off a bridge. She had to come up with that while high. _There's no way._

I'm getting off track; none of that matters. I wanna get it out, Ransom's dark side, and force him to show me everything—every ugly, _murderous_ inch, and if I'm wrong about him, about everything I just said, and he happens to be just another rich boy with a short temper, I'll still have fun pulling his leg and making him angry again. 

Call it morbid curiosity, call it stupid.

I'll call it a _panacea—the remedy for all my ailments._

At least until I get bored again. Then, I'll have to go right back to stealing people's things and returning them. _The act is so much more fun than possessing the item._ I would tell you to try it, but pickpocketing is a lot harder than you think, especially in a crowded place where people are expecting their shit to go missing. 

Climbing out of bed and not bothering to change out of my pajamas—oversized shirt and boxers, thank you very much—I drive to Delicate Embers right before closing, plopping down right in front of Mikey at the bar. 

"All these fucking wretched things against the walls, Mikey," I say, looking around. He has everything from hockey jerseys to borderline offensive displays of _'Southern Culture,'_ as he likes to call it, which are just different plaques of old-timey guns and stuffed fish and animals. They're hideous, too bland, yet at the same time, too distracting—just _a mess._ "You'd think you'd be able to make the place look more homely. Spruce it up a bit." If he'd let me decorate, I think it could look so much better, but he always refuses. 

"What do ya' want, Quinny?" he chortles, wiping down glasses while giving me a side-eye. 

"You know Ransom. How well?"

"He tolerates me. Which says a lot, 'cause the fella hates everyone."

"How dramatic."

"I've told him that." I smile as I lean forward, tugging on his wrist to get him to look at me. He does. 

I lower my voice before I speak, not quite to a whisper, but close: "How do you think I'd be able to get in touch with him?" 

He pulls back, sucking in air through his teeth, cocking his mouth to the side. "I don't give out his number same reason I don't give out yours, Q. The motherfucker would _kill_ me, and I happen to like my life." 

"Ugh," I groan, rolling around to be dramatic. Mike chuckles at me. "Living is so _overrated._ " 

It's not if we're sincere. I've actually come quite close to saying I thoroughly enjoy it, but that'd be hyperbole. I _like_ it. I like searching for something to entertain me. Living for an adrenaline rush is hard, so _grueling_ , but so rewarding when you finally hit the gold, and find something to continually excite you. Ransom may be that. _We'll see._

Happiness? Now, _that's_ overrated. Happiness makes us hate being sad. It makes us feel pressured to live life to the fullest, making us hate ourselves and our actions in the long run. Happiness is _stressful_ , and eventually, you learn being sad isn't that bad when you know how to make the most of it. 

"You suggest I try dyin'?"

"It'd be something different," I suggest jokingly, tossing my arms in the air with a shrug. He rolls his eyes. 

"He comes a lot. I'd suggest comin' 'round 'til he's 'ere one day. Not much else to do." 

— + — 

_Day one:_

Zip, zilch, nada. Nothing. Honestly, it's my fault for coming to a bar on a Monday and expecting anyone of interest to be here. Knowing me, I only go to bars on a Monday when I'm depressed or high outta my mind. 

_Day two:_

Wednesdays are a different breed; on Wednesdays, you get people who are overly excited for the weekend, as well as business meetings that are a bit more relaxed, simply because it's _hump day._

Nonetheless, Ransom isn't here, and I'm beginning to think I either have poor eyesight, Mikey was wrong in his assessment, or, most likely, Ransom sees me before he comes in and decides to go home. All three would be fair assumptions. 

_Day three:_

Today, I'm scheduled to work from 7:00 P.M. to 1:00 A.M. because it's a Saturday. You'd be surprised at the number of weirdos Delicate Embers gets on a Saturday. I wouldn't, though, because a lot of them are here to see me, hence the timeslot Mikey always schedules me for. 

I can't complain when I walk home with an extra half-grand in my pocket. 

Finally, Ransom sits at the bar nursing a whiskey cider (that I didn't make, _by the way),_ a lone finger tracing around the edge of the glass as he talks to a brunette who seems far more interested in him than he is her.

I can only hear fragments of their conversation:

_"Out of everyone here, you - - - . What's so interesting about me?"_

_"Oh, come on. - - - you're gorgeous."_

There's that stupid-ass line again. I'm not sure how it works—if anyone else were to say it, it'd sound contrived and forced, but it seems to go over well for him every time he says it. And this is the third time tonight, each time to a different girl if you can imagine that. 

She blushes as he pushes the hair out of her face, tucking it behind an ear. 

_"I've gotta dip, but - - - for you?"_

He hands her a napkin, and she fishes out a pen from her purse, scrawling something down rapidly before folding it once, and handing it over to him. 

This is _also_ the third time that's happened tonight. I'm assuming they're names and numbers, but all he does is take one glance at them, then toss them in the trash before moving on. 

Shit is _weird._

Maybe he's not _that_ boring, but this suave person he makes himself out to be is unremarkable. Run of the mill. Banal. Insipid. _Uninspired_. A million other words you'd find in a fucking dictionary. 

When I finish any immediate orders, I make my way over to him. 

"You're so much more interesting when you're not trying to get someone's number."

His jaw stiffens as he turns his attention on to me, downing the rest of his drink in one fell swoop as if he's gonna need to be drunker to hold a conversation. _It's kinda funny when you think about it hard enough._ "Why hasn't Mike fired you yet?" 

"Kinda hard to fire me from my own establishment." 

He quirks up an eyebrow as he lets out a single laugh, swaying his head from side to side like that's so unbelievable. "You're fucking joking."

"Whatever makes you sleep at night."

"Always a pleasure, Quinn," one of the guys who's always here to see me says, slipping me a hundred dollar bill underneath his empty glass. Ransom watches with a keen eye but stays silent. 

"No problem, Jordan. I'll see you again next week." I blow him a kiss and shoot him a wink, and he beams back at me, waving a single hand. Thinking nothing of it, I turn around to clean his glass in the sudsy water basins behind me before putting it back on the shelf, but Ransom's nibbling on the tip of his thumb when I turn back around, eyes narrowed in my direction like he wants to say something. "What." 

"Probably didn't take his wallet, huh?" he mumbles. 

"Hmm. You ever write for SNL? Comedian like you."

"Hilarious."

"If I _had_ taken his wallet, he wouldn't have known about it."

"That can't be true. Took me 'bout ten seconds to figure it out."

I nod in faux-understanding before laughing and snatching up his empty glass to fill it with another whiskey cider, sliding it back to him. He stirs it with the thin straw I gave him, sucking in air through his teeth. "What's fuckin' funny?" 

"If I didn't want you to notice, you wouldn't have." 

"That's fuckin' stupid."

" _Maybe_ , but look what you're doing now: _talking to me._ "

"That's one hell of a way to get someone's attention, Quinn." 

"I already had your attention." Realization clearly sets in for him that he was the one who initially approached me, _not_ the other way around. In all seriousness, I'm in awe that he's still sitting here—it seems that the person I got to meet last week at this same time was so much viler than the one sitting in front of me now. 

Now, he's mild-mannered and curious but relatively tame. 

I want the untamed version back. 

Maybe that's a deathwish, though. Death's not too bad. 

"Anyways," I say, "what's the point of getting someone's number if you're gonna throw it away seconds later?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, quirking up a brow. "You watchin' me?" I almost roll my eyes. 

"There you go again with the whole _suave Superman_ thing."

"Oh, fuck off." 

"No, _you_ fuck off—"

"Quinn, can I get another beer?" I sigh before spinning on my heels, squinting to see who's taking. It's… _Fuck, what's his name?_ Jim, Jeremy, James _—why do all their names start with' J'?!—_ I don't remember. 

I smile at him and comply, taking his empty glass back to the sink area. As I turn, the lights in the bar catch my eye in just the wrong way, sending a blinding pain straight to my temples that makes me have to squeeze my eyes closed. _Jesus. Christ._ Taking a deep breath, I place my thumb and forefinger on either side of my forehead and massage slowly, already knowing it won't do shit to stop the oncoming headache. 

_Spoiler alert: it's not working._

I fix the beer and slide it to the man, smiling when he utters a quiet _'thank you.'_ _I need to smoke._

Ransom sits in the same place as before, still babysitting his drink, eyes probably fixed on my every move. _Whatever_. "You're boring," I say. "I'm taking my break." 

Pushing through the tiny door that separates me from the rest of the bar, I stumble out to the back of Delicate Embers after letting Mikey know I'm taking my break. My head pounds, thudding away, begging for relief, so I hurry to fish out a joint, and light up to ease the pain. 

"You smoke a lot." _Oh, brother._

"I smoke _frequently,_ not a lot. Just enough to ease my migraines." Ransom shrugs as he settles next to me, sticking out a hand for me to give him the joint. I think about it for a bit but decide against it. "Why should I?"

"No one's telling you to." _I guess._ I hand it over. 

He takes a drag in silence, shoving around loose rocks on the pavement with the tip of his shoe, a beaten up loafer from Gucci. _Weird._ "Why," he says, but he doesn't phrase it like a question. The joint settles back in my hand, and I hit it again, only for a moment. 

"Why what?"

"The pickpocketing." 

"For the adrenaline rush." He takes the weed from my mouth, growing impatient, I suppose. _How rude._

"What a stupid fucking retarded reason." _Just_ _about_ _every_ _word_ _in_ _that_ _sentence_ _strung_ _together_ _like_ _that_ _was_ _absolutely_ _jarring. Why_ _am_ _I e_ _ven_ _surprised?_ I almost flinch but don't, only because I'm not sure how he'd react to it. 

"You swear a lot."

"I'm a grown-ass man."

"Something like that."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" 

"Calm down, big boy." He hands the joint back over to me with a scoff, but I don't take a hit just yet. "You like arguments, don't you?" I say, using the little that I've learned tonight to formulate an idea. It really seems like it if we take into account the way he acted with me last week. He has to have an affinity for a _challenge_ , and I wouldn't be able to fault him for it. "'Cause of the push and pull, the disobedience, rebellion, yadda yadda, right? Same reason you just want to _get_ the numbers, not keep them, I bet." I pause to take a drag, then hand it back over to him, finally starting to feel a bit of the effects. I chuckle. _"Turns you on, doesn't it?"_

"Shut the fuck up." 

"Make me." 

"Nah. You'd like it too much." 

_"No, you'd like it too much,"_ I mock, pitching up my voice, rolling my head around, and hoping it'll rouse him enough to do something.

"Nice try."

Scoffing, I take the joint back and snuff it out, putting whatever remnants are left back in the Altoids container. "You don't get tired of controlling your impulses? All those urges?" 

"What do you want from me." I don't think any of his questions tonight have been phrased like questions. Forgive me for saying this, but I kind of dig that. 

"Same person I met on my last shift." 

Lines form between his brows as he tilts his head to the side, looking down at me. He shakes his head before looking away and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Voice lowered, he says, "I shouldn't have done that." _Ugh._

"Which part?"

"All of it. There was no reason to."

"You always need a reason to do shit?" He rolls his eyes. I sigh. "I pissed you off, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"I'm still pissing you off, aren't I?"

"For the most part."

"Then what's stopping you right now from doing it again?" _Come on, come on, come on._

He doesn't answer me. 

I think about the things that made him act out last time: pickpocketing him, but I don't have the finesse to pull that off right now; laughing at him, but he'd probably think it's the weed; _taunting him._ Taunting him could work. 

"Y'know, I started reading a bit of Harlan Thrombey's work."

"Is that so."

"Yeah. Must suck living in his shadow day in and day out." His jaw stiffens as he audibly swallows, his head rolling to the side. _A little bit more._ "I thought about it—Like, _i_ _magine_ having to wake up every day knowing you just can't— _won't_ be as good as him. That your whole family probably looks down on you—" 

"You talk too goddamn much, Quinn," he says, glancing at me as he sucks on his teeth. _I might've gone too far. That was mean._ "And I know you're doing it just to get a fuckin' rise outta me, but God fucking dammit—"

Before I can think, Ransom shifts, moving in front of me with one swift motion, forcing my shoulder into the wall. He looks down the bridge of his nose at me, head held high, and his throat bobs as he swallows. "You think it's fun pushin' my buttons."

"Yes," I say, drawing out the _'s,'_ trying my hardest not to start laughing. 

"Since you were so curious about how much I know, I'll show you somethin' else, yeah?" My throat goes dry, and I didn't intend for it to, so all I can do is nod. 

"You see right here?" he asks, free hand coming up to hover by my neck, and I think he's gonna choke me, but he doesn't. He places a finger at my pulse point, and he's probably finding out just how hard my heart is beating. _Pounding like my head was before the weed, like a jackhammer on cement._ He smiles, and I have to lick my lips. _Shit._

"Twenty books outta forty-nine," he says, now forcing his finger into my throat, starting up a dull, stinging pain in my neck. "Harlan has people die in the same exact way. You know what that is?" _I could take a guess._

"No." 

He slices a finger across my throat in one languid, fluid motion, side to side, pressing firmly as he stares into my eyes like he's _bored_. "Just like that. From one end to the next. Think it's his favorite because of the shock it causes." He does it again, one more time, his eyes now fixed on my neck, even slower than before, making my knees buckle, my legs growing heavier. "All that blood, y'know?" I squeeze my thighs together and nod as he moves in further, right there, so within reach like he just might kiss me, but he doesn't. He starts laughing, giggling almost, and it's scarier than what his actions are implying right now. There's a sinister look to his eyes, one that's still noticeable even though he's not looking at my face. It makes my skin tingle. "Just pouring, jetting out like a waterfall if you hit the carotid artery. You'd be drowning in your own blood."

As if nothing just happened, he moves back to my side, leaning his head against the wall. _Jesus H. Christ._

Why does my skin feel like it's _burning?_

He sits in silence for a bit, unmoving, _just staring at shit,_ as I catch my breath. I think my lungs are on fire. _Oh, my God._ He sighs. "Thrombey Real Estate. I'll be there at 3:00 P.M. next Sunday."

"Is that an invite?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. Don't fuckin' come." 

For a second, this seemed simple; just two wretched things against a wall, smoking a joint underneath the moonlight, but the moment he placed his finger against my neck to metaphorically _slit my throat,_ I realized everything might be a little more complicated.

I've never been a fan of simplicity, anyway. 


	4. Simply Suck My Dick

#####  _you’ll wind me up_

#####  _or you’ll wind up dead_

##### ~ “Absinthe” by IDKHOW ~

###  **—** _Ransom_ **—**

“Do you actually _do_ anything?” 

“I do more in a day than you do in a week, asshole.” 

“Ransom, do _not_ talk to your father like th—”

I wish I was high. 

_Yeah_. I wish I was high right now, doing a line of blow, or taking a hit from my bong, but I’m not at home. I’m taking the brunt of my parents’ moaning and groaning and bitching and crying. 

I would tell you what they’re talking about, but that would entail lying as I don’t remember the topic of conversation. I thought about taking a hit before I came over, but something told me that I wouldn’t need it. 

That feeling? Dead wrong. It was _dead wrong._

Sitting in one of the uncomfortable, oddly stiff chairs that pack my mother’s real estate office, I watch as my father turns his attention to me, evidently fed up with the argument mother’s started to pick with him, something about him never being home when he says he is. _I’m not sure how she’d know that, but whatever._

He’s probably cheating if we’re being frank, and while I wouldn’t _blame_ him, necessarily, I also don’t think it’s a good idea. Mother’s the type to cut a guy loose, no warning, no discussion, and it’s not like he’s got his own money somewhere. 

I can’t say I didn’t derive any qualities from her. 

“You need to find a stable income,” he says, clearing his throat, motioning to my mother. She nods as she pulls out a pamphlet and slides it over to me, waving a finger under the words on the front, _“Ins and Outs: Real Estate,”_ in tall, white letters. I sigh. 

“I _have_ a stable income.” Not to mention the fact that I’d rather crawl under a burrow in the sand and suffocate before following in Linda Thrombey’s footsteps. 

“Making Harlan pay for every one of your expenses is not stable, son.”

“I don’t force his fuckin’ hand. His choice.” 

“Same difference.” 

“Richard, you cannot talk. You never help out with the business—”

 _“Linda, now is not the fucking time!”_ And there they are again: _off-topic,_ bickering and fighting about bullshit that has nothing to do with me. 

Standing and deciding that this is a severe waste of my time, I walk out to the lobby after snatching one of my mother’s cigarettes, and one of the matchbooks with _Thrombey Real Estate_ sprawled across the front in ugly red letters. Mother decided for advertising that reflected granddad’s career—something any person with two working eyes would advise against—meaning every single thing about her company has something dramatic plastered on it: blood spatters, knives and guns from the 1800s, and even corny-ass slogans like, _“Deals so good it’s criminal!”_ and, _“With Thrombey Real Estate, you don’t have to kill to get the house of your dreams!”_ and, my personal favorite, _“Jesus, slit my goddamn throat, Linda Thrombey is absolutely fucking dreadful!”_

Alright, I might’ve added that last one.

In so many words, mother wishes she was granddad, and granddad does whatever mother wants ’cause she gets whiny. _Easily._

I place the cig up to my lips when I get outside, letting it teeter between my teeth before I rip out a match from the packet to light it. But I don’t. It tastes like ass balancing between my lips, the filter tainting my tongue. 

The match burns down to the tip of my fingers, and I shake it out, tossing it on the pavement. Then, I do it a few more times until there’s only one left in the pack, taunting me, even though I’ve never liked the taste of tobacco or the feel of nicotine. I think I just like being occupied with it—feeling the filth invade my lungs, march me toward a premature death. _Wouldn’t that be fun._

_I wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit any longer, that’s for sure._

“Are you a smoker?” Quinn snatches the cig from my mouth to scrutinize it, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. 

“S’not even lit, genius,” I mumble, looking down at her squinted eyes and cocked mouth. She shrugs before she hands it back to me, but I toss it on the pavement and squish it with the tip of my toe, fishing out the last match from the matchbook. 

I shouldn’t be surprised she’s here, and yet, here I am. _Surprised._ Telling her might’ve been a lapse in judgment, but no one’s ever said I make good decisions. 

I could lie to you right now, blame that decision making on the two whiskey ciders and the few puffs from her joint I had, but I knew what I was doing. I knew I would be bored. And, sure, all she’s brought me so far is irritation, but at least being irritated gives me something to do. 

_You probably can’t call it stalking if you consent to it, can you?_

“Isn’t it fascinating how people look more attractive when they’re doing something like smoking?” She stares at the orange bud on the ground, tapping her hands against her thighs. “You, for example, looked dangerous, _elegant,_ if you will, with that thing between your lips. But now it’s gone, on the ground all shriveled up, and you look like everyone else. _Safe_.” 

“You could’ve taken a drag, Einstein. No one would’ve stopped you.”

She scrunches up her face. “Cigarettes are fucking disgusting. You’re destroying your lungs. Stick to weed.” 

I sigh. “You act like a fuckin’ twelve-year-old.”

“Youthfulness is exuberance. And perhaps I _am_ merely a twelve-year-old mind within the vessel of a ripe twenty-five-year-old. You would never know.” 

_What the fuck?_ “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that.”

“Whatever. What are you doing here? You a momma’s boy?” Her head’s cocked to the side as she looks up at me, sucking on her teeth while waiting for my answer. I’ve got _nothin’_. Her brows furrow. “Would you even be here if you had something else to do?” 

Taking in a deep breath ( _and_ _sorta wishing I had lit the cig between my teeth),_ I say, “Prolly not.” 

“That’s what I thought,” she says. “Well, let’s go do something, then.”

“Why the fuck would I go anywhere with you? I don’t like you.” 

“Don’t be such a bitch. You _‘invited me here,’_ and I’ll cure your boredom if you cure mine. Come on.” 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs before spinning on her heels, sauntering off in the direction she came from, not looking back. The pedestrian traffic light is red, but she walks across the street anyway, not bothering to look both ways. _Just fuckin’ weird._

I go back to closing my eyes and leaning up against the building until my mother’s voice rings out from inside, effortlessly piercing through the glass door that separates us. “Ransom! Get back in here!” _For fuck’s sake._

“Hugh, listen to your mother! We had important things to say!” _Sure you did._

Rolling my eyes and putting my head in a hand, I blow out a raspberry before facing the direction Quinn just went in. “Fine!” I call out, making her halt in her tracks. She doesn’t turn around, but I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s fuckin’ smiling right now. “Come the fuck on. I’ll follow you.”

— + — 

Target. 

She wanted to go to Target, so that’s where we are, and I’m already regretting my decision. Quinn prances around the women’s clothing section, drifting her fingers across any and every piece on the racks, playing with earrings, and bracelets, and watches until she spins on her heels to face me. 

“What.” I probably sound bored or irritated, maybe, but I can’t be bothered to control that.

She walks toward me before climbing onto her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. _“Let’s steal something,”_ she says, backing up with the subtlest smile on her face, along with a tipped eyebrow that suggests she already knows my response to that won’t be favorable. 

I don’t have anything to say, so I settle for, “ _Quinn_.”

“You say my name too much. And if you have a problem taking from multi-billion dollar corporations that use child labor probably, then you can simply suck my dick. Free of charge, of course.” _Fair enough, I guess._

“You’re not gonna get me arrested.”

“Remind me again; you’re rich, white, _and_ male, right? Plus, the attractiveness, which gives you another _huge_ leg up. Think you’ll be fine. And I know what I’m doing.” 

“I never said I was rich.”

“And OJ didn’t murder his ex-wife. Write a book about it.” 

Lifting my brows, I stare at her, waiting for her to explain herself. Her eyes roll. 

Motioning a finger, Quinn says, “Balmain belt, your Gucci shoes don’t have creases in them anymore, Rolex, that ring was platinum, you had over two thousand dollars in your wallet, and,” she pauses, going back up on her tiptoes, “the chain on your neck is white gold, I bet.” She runs a finger over my necklace’s grooves, forcing it down into my skin, before backing away to tuck her hands into her back pockets. 

I reach up to palm it, discovering that it’s been untucked from my shirt for however long, and with a swift movement of my fingers, I slide it back under my collar. “Is that all?” 

She smiles. “It’s simple deductive reasoning.” 

“Is it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know about it, pretty boy.” Thrumming on the handlebar of the carriage, Quinn waves a hand for me to catch up, so I do. “So,” she lowers her voice, “what do you wanna steal?” 

“I get that you think stealing is fun and all, but you do realize that you can’t turn around and hand Target back something you stole, yeah? You’re not that fucking dense, are you?”

“Obviously I realize that, and it’s awfully brave of you to assume I have plans to return this shit.” She rifles through some clothes before tossing them into the cart, leading us over to the section with all the jewelry. 

Rings and earrings and bracelets occasionally come out of their packaging and end up in her pockets or the purse on her arm while she makes mindless conversation with me. 

“Ma’am?” I fold my arms over my chest as a Target employee approaches her, looking awfully nervous with furrowed brows and squinted eyes.

_Guess she’s not as good as she thought._

I lengthen the distance between us, pulling out my phone from my back pocket to look like I’m occupied. Imagine the fucking faces on my parents if they find out years from now I’ve been arrested for shoplifting. _For fuck’s sake._

“Yes?”

“Did you need help finding anything?” _Well. Maybe she is._

“Yes, actually.” Peeking up from my phone, I watch as Quinn ushers the fella in front of her, motioning to the array of jewelry on the racks. I can’t stop an eyebrow from quirking up when she reaches behind her for another pair of earrings, and fiddles with the clasps on both until they’re free of their packaging. 

When she’s done saying whatever the fuck she’s saying, the employee turns around, and the earrings go into her pocket. “Thank you so much!”

“Sorry I couldn’t be a better help.”

“No, no. It’s no problem.” 

_What the fuck just happened?_

She starts walking off without me, footsteps _click-clack_ ing against the tile until I catch up with her, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Shh, sh-sh,” she says, whipping around and pressing a finger to her lips. “Do you feel that?” 

“Are you high?” 

“High off life, definitely.” She grips my arm and pulls me down to her height, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you feel it? The adrenaline?” _I guess._

“You look crazy.”

“And _you_ shouldn’t be so scared of breaking the law. I mean, what are laws really, y’ know?” _Oh, my God._ I can’t believe I’m actually thinking I should’ve stayed at the fucking real estate office. 

“Murder? Was murder on your mind when you said that stupid shit?” I say, grabbing her arm, but she shoots me a look, then the hand on her bicep, making me back off.

She frowns. “Ugh, you’re boring. And murder isn’t so bad.” _Huh?_

“I’m sorry?”

“There are worse things. Sex trafficking, child rape. The lot.” She flashes me a look before spinning back around, sliding another pair of earrings from their package, and into her pocket. “But murder? Murder can be self-defense. It can be the difference between life and death. It can be accidental. It can be painless. It can be rightful revenge.” Sighing, she cocks her head to the side as if in thought before she finishes: “It has _range_ if you will.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You know what they say about opinions,” she sing-songs, leading us over to the makeup section to pack a few things into her handbag and pockets, and even more into the carriage. Lipsticks, mascaras, and foundations specifically. 

“What? That they’re like assholes?”

“No.” She chuckles as she turns around, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Everyone is wrong except for me.” _Alright._

When she’s paid for the things she _didn’t_ steal, we exit, and Quinn fishes something out of her pocket and hands it to me—a small, silver pinky ring with a flat top that appears to be black onyx. I slide it on despite my initial reluctance. “What was this? Four dollars?”

“Twenty, actually.” I shrug. 

“What are you gonna do with all that?” I say, motioning to the bags hanging from her palms and wrists. Her total came to somethin’ close to one-hundred dollars, not including the piles of shit she stuffed into her pockets, and she didn’t even bat an eye. 

“Donate it to the women’s shelter.” 

“And you’re serious.”

“That so hard to believe?”

“Why’d you steal that shit, then?”

“You’re so curious.” Her head sways side to side as she moves past me, walking toward her car after shifting all her bags to one hand. My balance fumbles when she knocks into me, standing with one hand on her side. “Word of advice?”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ advice.”

She laughs at me, and I’m starting to notice that she does that shit a lot. “Learn to loosen up. It’ll be harder to fuck with you if you just calm down about certain things. Keep a level head until you don’t need to.” 

With that, Quinn’s gone, trotting off to her car, singing the lyrics to some song I don’t recognize. Before she’s entirely out of my sight, I pat down my pockets to make sure I have everything, and for the first time since I’ve met this girl, she hasn’t lifted something off of me. 

Why does that _irk_ me? 

Something is in my back pocket that wasn’t there before, though, opposite of the wallet, so I fish it out to find a folded up napkin, one of Mikey’s. I unfurl it. 

In bowing black letters is an address to an apartment in Cambridge, one I have to assume is hers. 

_Well_. 

— + —

Harlan’s house is formidable, to say the least. 

When my grandmother died days after my eighteenth birthday, it left him all alone in this monster of a manor, miles away from all other civilization. That’s the way he’s always liked it. 

He’s better over here. Further away from everyone else. 

That doesn’t stop his constant need for attention, though, attributing to the biweekly family dinners always held on the second and fourth Sundays of every month. Sometimes they’re here, and sometimes they’re at mother’s. 

Today is the former. 

“Ransom, late as always. Y’know, I was starting to think maybe all the clocks in your house are an hour behind, but that might be giving you too much credit.” 

“He probably just doesn’t know how to read.” Jacob doesn’t even look up from his phone as he says that, glued to the bright white of his screen that illuminates his pale face. 

Do I have the energy? _Do I have_ any _energy?_

“Probably.” _Nope. Don’t have it._

Meg furrows her brows. “ _What_ ?” she says, shaking her head. “No, _You’ll die alone one day, Meg,’_ or, _‘At least I have a real degree?’”_

“Seems like you’ve got it all figured out.” I pat her on the shoulder as I shuffle past, peering behind me to see if she’s moved from her spot. _Nope. Still as a statue._

Maybe this whole _loosening up_ bullshit will work out well. 

Time whips past as we settle at the table for dinner, Harlan sitting at the head like he always does, with Linda and Walt to his sides. Barely a crumb has grazed my lips before mother finds something to argue at me about, her words falling on deaf ears.

I heard it earlier. I don’t need to listen to it again. 

“Linda, don’t—” 

Harlan’s half-assed attempt goes haywire when mother intervenes, standing up from her chair to assert her dominance. “No, dad. He needs to hear it. I’ve been trying to get him into the business for years now, but he refuses to listen. Your birthday’s coming up. You’ll be twenty-nine, still living off of other people’s work. That doesn’t terrify you?”

“I would have to say it does not, no. Not in the slightest.” 

“Son—”

“Father.” 

He sighs. “Hugh”— _wrong name, but we’ll let it slide_ —“you need to take this more seriously. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and you can’t depend on someone else for the rest of your life—”

“That’s a fuckin’ riot coming from _you_ , Richard. What was today’s argument? Oh yeah: _‘You need to start pulling your weight around here, honey; you’re starting to come off like a hypocrite.’”_ I shoot mother a glare before turning my attention to him, shrugging and shaking my head ’cause I know my words are hitting them and bouncing right back off. “But being a hypocrite’s never stopped either you before, now, has it?”

“Ransom, _don’t talk to your father that way!”_

“Would it kill you to take up for yourself, _dad?_ I mean, really, this whole defeated-look-thing you’ve got goin’ on here,” I motion to his face, waving my finger around, “is _wicked_ unbecoming.” 

A quick peek at granddad tells me he’s enjoying all this—the chaos, the inevitable buildup to something greater, the bickering, the incoherence of it all. He’s addicted to it, yet he’s never directly a part of it. 

Usually, I’m docile with the bullshit, nodding along and chuckling when insults get tossed my way, constantly ready to take my ass home and jump into bed, but today? 

Somethin’s different about today. 

Today, I’m fucking exhausted. 

Linda clutches her pearls as she recoils, face scrunching up in disgust. “What did we tell you about saying that word?” 

“And drop that ridiculous accent,” Richard adds in, almost saying it under his breath as if he’s afraid of co-signing. He’s never been abashed at it before, so why start now? _Speaking of, right about now would be a good time to crawl under that burrow in the sand and suffocate to death._

“Can we cut the whole _‘I’m civil and innocent’_ act, Ransom?” Meg says, peeking up from her phone with a sly smirk spreading across her face. She’s probably been waiting to dig her claws in all night, knowing her, always ready to jump down my throat because she has nothing better to do. “You’re extorting granddad for millions of dollars a year, using him to pay all your expenses…”

Conversation starts to boom, arguments erupting from every corner, every nook and cranny of the table, swirling into an absolute mess of disorder and pandemonium, and one more look at granddad makes me wanna knock his lights out. 

Maybe it’s rude to say that about an eighty-two-year-old man who would otherwise be defenseless, but I don’t fucking care. 

He’s smiling, sipping his red wine pensively in between stabs of his pen at the tiny, miserable purple notebook nestled in his palm. Saying he has a _flair for the dramatic_ is a gross fucking understatement. 

He thrives off of it, gets _high_ off of it, like disruption is a cure for his otherwise bland and uneventful life, always cooped up with that nurse Marta, gossiping about everyone else. 

I wouldn’t blame him if somethin’ just didn’t feel so _off_ about it. 

It’s like Quinn, almost; his search for the next high, always greater than the last, except he’s got nothin’ to lose when the shit backfires. 

For her? One wrong move spells jail, and being black isn’t gonna help her case. 

For him? Over two-hundred million in assets and a bunch of greedy mothafuckas who’ll do anything to stay on his good side means he’s able _and willing_ to do whatever the fuck he wants. 

_Maybe Quinn’s right._

_Maybe murder isn’t so wrong._

“You know what? If you all have such a grand fucking problem with the way I decide to live my goddamn life, I invite you to simply _suck my dick._ Free of charge.” I shove back from the table, jumping up to my feet after throwing down the towel across my lap. Agape mouths pointed in my direction open and close, like fish filter feeding, and the sight would be amusing if I wasn’t so fucking _irritated._

“You can’t just…” Joni starts to ramble, swaying her head back and forth as the words just don’t come, never forming on her tongue. Father jumps up next, about to interject, but I stop him.

“Save it. I’m fuckin’ leavin’.”

“Ransom!” 


	5. Pissing You Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is...? weird? but i guess that depends on your definition of weird. anyways there's some light smut to prepare you for the next one, which should be here in 2/3 days.  
> i hope you enjoy :)
> 
> alt title: Torment and Childhood Anger

#####  _five seconds from losing my head_

#####  _now it’s time to show you what lunatics do_

#####  _not afraid to die as you can see_

#####  _life isn’t real, love’s make believe_

#####  _~ “Make Believe” by Juice WRLD ~_

### — _Ransom_ — 

One thing they always tell you about sleep is how much you'll miss it when you don't get enough. 

They're not exaggerating. 

It's been five days since I've gotten over four hours, and I feel my spirit decaying, shriveling up inside of my chest. _Like it was lively before._

The woman, Laura, lying next to me snores, and while it's starting to _grind my fucking gears,_ it's not what's keeping me awake. I don't know what is. 

I'm uneased. 

I head to my shower, slipping out of bed and not really caring whether she wakes up. The water is scalding, damn-near burning my skin with every drop that hits it, but something about being so close to the pain feels soothing, I guess. 

_Whatever that means._

Something's changed. I don't typically blow up like that simply because I can't bring myself to give a fuck, but thinking about how Harlan dove to defend my mother has me on fuckin' _edge._

Twelve missed calls from my mother. 

Eighteen from my father. 

Fifteen messages total I have yet to listen to. 

Thirty-eight texts total that I've barely skimmed over, and I only remember one from today: _We'll be there at two o'clock tomorrow._

Might as well put a drill to my forehead. 

I've been thinking a lot about death lately, probably a little _too_ much, but it is what it is. Everyone I look at, everyone I see, everyone I pass by—I imagine the consequences of their untimely demise. Then I imagine my own. And my mother's. And my father's. And Harlan's. 

_Would I care?_

I peek down at my hand and realize I forgot to take my rings off, two of them sitting there dormant, glistening under the shower spray. The third, I'm sure, is still in Quinn's possession, either that, or it's sitting in some lucky schmuck's pocket. 

_Nah_. The thief probably kept it. Wouldn't surprise me. 

If someone took her life from her prematurely, would she care?

Would she even _fight_? Maybe she'd have an ounce of compassion for herself if she were forced to watch it happen. Forced to see the way the air would leave her lungs. Forced to see the light that would drain from her black eyes. Forced to see her face starting to turn purple, the last sputters of her breath falling against deaf ears. 

Just the noises she'd make then—little mewls and whimpers, and maybe, _just maybe,_ she'd beg for it all to stop. For mercy. _For me to let her breathe again._ On the other hand, maybe she'd beg for more. Maybe she'd beg to be killed. Hell, she'd probably fuckin' _smile_. 

_Jesus fuck_ , the thoughts make my dick _whine_. 

Bracing myself against the wall, I look down, make eye contact with my dick, and shake my head as I wrap my hand around it. I give myself one swift stroke, and it makes me suck in a harsh breath and toss my head back. 

Looking back down, it's Quinn's hand instead, and she's got my ring on as she plays with my cock, stroking her hand up and down, and up and down, with the pinch, the chill from the metal on her finger reminding me that she's _mine,_ on her knees for _me,_ working her delicate fingers to please _me._

When I stroke faster, the head of my dick tingles, pumping my cock from tip to base, imagining the warmth of her mouth, the tightness of her throat after she wraps her lips around me, swirls her tongue around the tip, and takes me whole.

Tiny tears run down her cheeks 'cause she can barely fit all of me down her throat when I start fuckin' her mouth, thrusting up into my hand, and feelin' my thighs tense up the closer I get. The tingles from earlier take over my whole body as my fist works on autopilot, my chest and shoulders gettin' this feelin' I can't fuckin' explain. 

"You're awake," Laura says, tapping her knuckles against the door frame. 

Begrudgingly stopping my fist's movement, I rest both hands against the shower wall, letting the water roll down my shoulders. 

"I am." 

Her footsteps tap against the tile floor, and the shower door swings open before she presses her chest flush to my back. 

"Do you want help?" she whispers, her breath sending a chill down my spine. Her hands trace over my pecs before they travel the length of my torso, and her fingers wrap around my cock, stroking slowly. "Let me make you come again." Sighing, I push her away from me to look her up and down. _Why not._

I tip my head at her panties. "Take those off." 

She complies, turning around to show me her ass before slipping the skimpy navy blue fabric over her hips. A defiant thought makes me imagine Quinn doin' it for me instead, her fingers rolling across her copper skin, showing off the subtle curves of her toned body for _me,_ and it makes me fuckin' _angry._

Turning off the shower and slipping out, I guide Laura by her hip to the counter, pushing a few products out of the way to clear a space for her. She puts her hands down first, bracing herself, but I knock her down to her stomach and pull her hips out. 

I fish out a condom and roll it on, running my fingers over her slit, finding she's already wet. 

Slipping my cock inside, I stifle the groan at the back of my throat when I see Quinn _again_ , feeling her slick pussy warm, wet, _snug_ around me instead, perky ass nestled against my waist. 

I fuck her until she comes twice, her thighs shaking, hips writhing beneath me, fingers about to break in two with the way she's gripping my wrist. And still—it's Quinn's body I see, it's Quinn's pussy I'm fucking, it's Quinn's sultry, teasing voice that's mewling my name right now. 

_My name thick in her mouth, moans for me rolling off her tongue, sputtering past her lips, hooded doe eyes peering back at me over her shoulder. My ring on her finger. My fist tangled in her hair._

I wanna ruin her. Wreck her. _Destroy_ her. 

It's enough to send me over the edge as I force out a groan that starts deep in my gut and ends in my chest, and come with a shiver, panting as I calm down with a few more thrusts, spilling into the condom. 

"You gotta leave tomorrow mornin'."

— + — 

One hit, two hit. Red hit, blue hit. 

I hit my bong twice before I start feelin' shit, but two more hits would make it so I _can't_ feel shit if y' know what I mean. Not right now, though—my parents would only ruin my high, and it'd be a terrible waste of weed. I just need enough to keep me remotely calm. 

The time is _1:46 P.M._ when I focus my eyes on my watch, so I unlock the front door, and plant myself on the couch, lying down and closing my eyes since I've nothing better to do. 

Eventually, they storm in, complaining about the hot weather _(even though the high is 74 today)_ , already prepared to bite my head off. 

"Dad is worried about you. Dad never gets worried." 

"Maybe if he weren't such a selfish brat…" 

"Richard, we talked about this."

I'm still lying down 'cause I don't feel like moving, but that apparently starts to agitate my father. "Are you listening?" 

"Partially." I grunt as I sit up, cracking my neck, rolling my shoulders. "Granddad…" Squinting my eyes and trying to focus on what they're saying, I fail miserably and start laughing instead. "He's not _all that,_ y' know? Fuckin' liar, that's what he is." 

"Ransom." My mother shakes my shoulder, trying to get me to look at her, I guess, but nah. I don't really wanna. "What does that mean." She doesn't say it like a question. 

I can't help but laugh _again,_ kicking my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, mindlessly placing my house-shoe-covered feet on the myriad of magazines that litter it. "Whatever you want it to mean, mother." 

"Get your fucking feet off that." _It's_ my _table, but okay._ I do—I swing them down and stand up instead, scratching the back of my head with one hand in my pocket. 

The sunlight hits me in just the wrong way, and I flinch, throwing an arm over my eyes to block it. "Do you wanna calm down?" 

"Are you fucking _high?_ " Richard grips my jaw in a hand, holding my face while scrutinizing me, his eyes squinted, head cocked to the side. 

Laughing, I nudge him off. "Yeah. A wee bit." I make the pinching motion with my fingers as I squeeze one eye closed. "Small amount." 

"Oh my fucking God."

"You're swearing a lot. _Chill_. Why are you here?"

"You need to make something of yourself, Ransom. Harlan started out with a rusty Smith Corona and—" 

"And I don't give a _fuck_." 

"Ransom, don't—"

"Don't what?" My mother clearly didn't know where that sentence was going because she's staring at me with her jaw stuttering up and down, her arms withdrawing. _Blegh._ "Don't 'disrespect' granddad? Is that what you were gonna say?" 

Silence overtakes the room, but I'm not really sure _why._ Maybe they're getting just as tired of me as I am of them. 

A look at my father's face tells me I just might've hit the nail on the head. He sighs, swaying his head back and forth, and folding his arms over his chest before he starts speaking again: "You are so _childish_. When are you gonna grow up, Ransom? You don't think twenty-eight's a good age? What, are you holding out for fifty-eight? Sixty-eight?" 

I don't have anything to say to that. 

"Well, give me something!" 

I stare at him, waiting for him to make another move, because, _as I said,_ I don't have shit to say to that. If anything, I'd just tell them to _get the fuck out_ 'cause I don't have time for this, and I don't even have shit to do today. 

His eyebrows raise, and he tosses his hands in the air with a shrug. "Fine. You know what? Die up your own ass for all I care." 

" _Richard_ ," my mother warns, but I don't think he's entirely done. 

"No, Linda. The boy needs to learn. If you don't care about fending for yourself, then neither do I." He turns to my mother. "We've been trying for the past three years to get him to listen. It's time to give up."

The past three years is an _overstatement,_ alright? It's more like the past three months 'cause that's when the shit started to ramp up. It was invariably, _"Ransom this,"_ and _"Ransom that,"_ as if I don't have half a brain cell to think with myself. 

I'm tired of the bullshit. Plainly stated. 

And I won't lie to you, seeing as everyone around me has already decided what type of motherfucker I'm gonna be _(further reinforced by Sunday's trainwreck of a family dinner and Quinn's plight to earmark me as some aggressive asshole),_ I think I'm starting to come around to the idea of being precisely whoever it is everyone thinks I am. 

Wouldn't that be the ultimate _fuck you._

My family's little golden boy, Harlan Thrombey, has been setting the shit in stone for me for the past six years. Might as well just _own it._

My mother opens her mouth to respond, but my patience is only wearing thinner and thinner: "As much as I would love for you guys to stay," I look at them both, "this seems like a conversation you could be having on the way outta my house." I motion to the front door, plastering a toothless smile on my face. "By all means." 

"You ungrateful prick!" my father spits, ready to jump at me, _I guess,_ but he doesn't get very far before my mother reaches for him, gripping his wrist in a hand and tugging backward. He resists but falls in line. _As always._ A good little bitch boy to Linda Thrombey. 

"Don't come crawling back to us when dad cuts you off," my mother says. I roll my eyes. 

Ushering them toward the door, I say, "According to Richard, the only place I'll be crawling is up my own ass, so…" Only pausing to kick open the front door, I wave an arm for them to leave. "...You can suck it. My ass." 

"Ransom—"

The door slams shut, allowing me to take a deep breath _,_ and blow it out in a raspberry. 

_I'm bored._

— + —

It's almost past _1:00 A.M._ , and I'm sitting outside of Delicate Embers, preparing myself for the questionable decisions I'm about to make. If we're honest, you should always, constantly, and consistently _do whatever the fuck you want._ Why? 

_Why the fuck not?_

I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'll do. I guess we'll see. 

Quinn wears a leather skirt that stops at her mid-thigh, the color of her tank top a vibrant red that contrasts well with her skin tone. I sit at the bar and put my head in my hands, massaging my temples, wishing I'd taken a more than one hit before leaving. 

"You're here," she says, motioning to lift my arms out of the way, but I don't bother. She scoffs and moves to another section of the counter to wipe it down. 

"I haven't slept in a week." That's less of a confession to her, and more of me realizing that I've seriously let myself lose sleep over this bullshit. _Me._

"That sounds like a personal problem." _It is._

If you're thinking I shoulda gone to her place instead since she gave me her address, you're probably right. But it's not like I ever planned on going over there—she'd probably hope to rob me, or something else fuckin' stupid, but I'm not gonna sit here, lie, and say I didn't at least _consider_ it once or twice. 

_Sue me._

Something's off about her, _clearly,_ and while I keep coming back to it, to her madness, it doesn't mean I _should_. But when's the last time I've actually done something I'm supposed to do?

"Actually, if you give it a hot minute, it might turn into your problem." 

She makes a face at me that says _'whatever.'_ "Right. Anyways, I have a lot of shit to do before I go home, and your presence is starting to give me a headache, so…" 

I ignore her. "Is there any particular reason you keep fuckin' with me? I mean, honestly."

"Honestly?" Her eyebrows quirk up as she leans forward, a tiny smile growing on her plump lips. "It's all 'cause I like pissing you off. Plain and simple."

"Who doesn't." 

"Personal. Problems _._ 'Kay?" _There goes that fuckin' 'kay' again._

She tends to random things for a bit—picking up glasses, throwing away used napkins, wiping some shit down, whatever—until she realizes I'm not gonna budge. Sighing, her face falls, seemingly growing impatient. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not looking for a relationship, _especially_ not with you, and I have more than enough friends, so what is it you _want_?" 

"I'm bored."

"Sounds like a—"

"Personal problem?" 

"Yes." Quinn nods, then cocks her head to the side, studying me. I don't know. All I know is that the girl is just staring at me at this point, until her lips part, and her eyes narrow. "You like the drama and dissent with me, don't you?" A knowing smile spreads across her face. "That's why you keep coming to find me, Ransom, isn't it? Let's not front, okay?" She stabs a finger into my chest, then frowns, yanking it backward. "It's a bad color on you." 

_God_ , I wish she would shut the fuck up. I _crave_ the idea of making her shut the fuck up. _Imagine that._

Quinn waves me off. "Get to goin' now, pal." 

"You don't ever shut your mouth, do you? Just 'cause you think you know so goddamn much about everything, Quinn. Is that it?" 

She smiles just before she laughs, giggling— _her fuckin' signature—_ and I know I've fueled a fire. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she leans forward over the counter to face me, a tiny smirk still tipping one corner of her mouth.

"You're so much more fun to be around when you're mad," she whispers, her eyes not leaving my lips, fixated on them. I let my tongue roll over the bottom one, and her throat bobs.

"So it does turn you on, then." 

"I never said that." Her words make my dick groan, from the way her teeth nip at her bottom lip to the way her tongue wets the corners of her mouth.

I place a hand up to her face, and she flinches, pulling back and resisting, but ultimately leaning into it. Her bottom lip stretches then snaps back into place when I tug on it with my thumb. Shifting, Quinn scans my features wildly, her rapid breathing making her chest heave up and down, and up and down. _I didn't realize this shit could be so simple with her._ "Look at that; you shut the fuck up." 

She rolls her eyes, but if I had to make an educated guess, I'd say she's thinkin' about screwing me right now with the way she nibbles on her bottom lip, rolling her nails against the counter. That's probably what leads her into saying, _"Fuck you,"_ too. 

"You wish." 

She scoffs and shakes her head, backing away. "If you wanna chat, come back before the bar closes next time, okay? Right now, you can leave. _Dickhead_." 

Looks like I might've struck a nerve. Or several. 

Who knows. 

I feel what I've been feeling for the past few days; that adrenaline she was talking about, a surging in my veins, the thudding of my heart in my chest, this buzzy feeling in all my limbs. It's fuckin' manmade cocaine, and I think I could start getting used to this bullshit.

_Finally._


	6. The Perverseness of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut and denial. y’know. the usual.

#####  _under a spell, you’re hypnotized_

#####  _darling, how could you be so blind_

#####  _i wanna grab both your shoulders and shake, baby_

#####  _snap out of it_

##### ~ “Snap Out of It” by Arctic Monkeys ~

###  _— Quinn —_

Ransom won’t leave. He just _won’t._

And he won’t give me a straight answer as to why, either. 

“Stop following me,” I mutter, slipping out the back, ready to smoke because I’m sure if this continues on any longer, a headache will start to form. And I’m not in the mood. 

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, Quinn.” Before I can think, he backs me into the wall, forcing my body into the brick with a single hand. The roughness starts to bruise my shoulder, probably leaving a red mark in its place. “Your obsession with an adrenaline rush, or whatever the fuck.” 

“Okay…” I shoot a glare at his hand forcing me into the wall. _What the fuck is this guy on?_

I shift, trying to shrug him off of me, but he doubles down, forcing me further back. My body tenses up, my shoulder starting to sting, his nails likely leaving crescent shaped imprints in my skin. “And what the fuck about it? What’s your goddamn problem?” 

Something changes in his features, cheeks turning redder, pupils widening, jaw stiffening. It’s _unsettling_. He moves and I’m about to interject, try to shove him off again, but he shuts me up when he places a knife to my throat and cocks his head to the side. 

“ _Woah_ , woah woah,” I backpedal, waving my hands to draw his attention away from my neck. His eyesight flickers over for only a second, but he presses harder, and it burns the same way his finger did on my pulse point a while back. “I was just spewing shit outta my ass, Ransom, alright? I wanted to make you angrier, that’s all. It was just a bunch of snap judgments, and I wanted to see you squirm, and I’m sorry for pickpocketing you or whatever, but it doesn’t mean anything now, ‘cause I gave the shit back to you. I didn't even take anything else—” _Fuck,_ I’m rambling. 

“Shh sh-sh.” I do. He looks me up and down, squinting. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

“No.” I swallow, pressing my head toward the wall, trying to escape my impending doom, but he shoves me backward again. 

“Liar.” He chuckles breathlessly. I flinch. “You wanted this. The excitement, the _cure for your boredom._ You said so. Said you didn’t care about dying.”

“I—” I try to calm myself down, taking in a few deep breaths before continuing: “I do care. I just knew—I knew that… that you weren’t gonna do it. But…” But _now? Now I’m not so sure._

My voice is shaky, no doubt resulting from the adrenaline surging through my body, but it’s the _wrong_ kind. This is flight rather than fight, and every touch feels heightened, even though my skin feels numb. 

“Really? And what was all that about murder not being so bad?”

“I was blowing smoke up your ass.” _I knew I was going to regret saying that bullshit._

A placid smile grows on his face, and my stomach churns. “Are you terrified?” he whispers, throat bobbing after he says it, nostrils flaring. 

“I don’t know whether or not to be scared of you.” 

“I don’t think you have enough common sense for the former.” _Ouch._

“Where is all this coming from?” I whisper, afraid my talking might make him react again. My heart thuds in my chest, almost the same way it did when he had those little flare ups—when he grabbed my wrist and “slit my throat”—but this is way worse. I'm not afraid of dying, but I don’t wanna die at the hands of _this_ dickhead. 

“Tired of being stepped on.” 

“I didn’t step on you—”

“Shut your _fuckin’_ mouth, Quinn, I swear to God.” 

“Who was it?” _I’m really pushing my luck here._ “It can’t just be me. I’ve only known you for a month—” The knife pinches my skin, scraping across the fragile surface raggedly as Ransom drags the tip down a small expanse, threatening me. A tear bleeds from the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry.” The words barely leave my lips before they dissipate in the late night air, and I probably would’ve been better off keeping them to myself. 

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize to me.” 

“What do you want? Payback? Revenge?”

“On you?” I nod. “No.” 

“Then what?” My voice is small, meek, like I’m back living in Indiana ten years ago with my mother again. That’s not me anymore, and yet, that same, fragile little girl is melding into me right now. I try to shove her down. “Power? Control?” 

Something flickers in his eyes, and I hope it means I’m right, but he ignores me: “Did you _really_ expect me to come to your place? Like we’re fuckin’ friends or somethin’?”

The knife digs into my skin, piercing my flesh ever so slightly before he readjusts. A drop of blood trickles down my throat. Panic starts to set in. I rub my clammy palms on my skirt to ground myself, take me out of the situation for a moment, but the chill from the metal against my neck won’t let me. 

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I-I gave you the…” I take a deep breath, “...the address t-to Mikey’s apartment, not—not mine.” 

He smiles then laughs, leaning down closer to me, making me turn my head away. “Look at that. I got you stutterin’ ‘n shit.” 

“Someone’ll find me. Mikey’ll come out here—”

“He’s gone home, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” 

“Seems like you’re not really in a position to barter, now, are you?” 

I sniff, and another tear goes streaming down my face when I blink my eyes tight, trying to block him out. “Are you going to kill me?” I say, realization setting in, starting to make me feel sick.

He smiles again, and this time it’s not toothless, but it remains subtle. “I think I like you better like this. All _nervous,_ y’know? ‘Cause you talk such a big game, Quinn, but I’m startin’ to think it’s all just a flimsy-ass defense mechanism.”

“For what?” He doesn’t answer me. 

He leans down again, craning the knife away from the spot he already cut, tugging my head to the side by yanking my hair to expose my neck. His nose presses into my pulse before he inhales against my skin. “You smell like peppermint,” he mumbles into my skin. 

_Okay...?_

“It’s essential oil.”

It stings as he slices his tongue over the thin wound he’s created, and groans at the taste. _At the taste of my blood._

_Jesus fucking Christ._

I squeeze my legs together, shifting in my place when he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A dull ache grows between my thighs, a pulsing in my pussy when I see the look in his eye; the darkness that was trying to come out before has taken over, at least for now, turning his cold baby blues into black. 

Truly— _finally_ —he looks as if he really might kill me, and for some fucked up, twisted reason, it makes my belly tighten, my clit throb. Something’s changed within him, I bet, and I wonder if it had anything to do with our conversation last Sunday. 

It might be a lapse in judgment, but I don’t care. 

I grip the hair at the base of his neck, and he flinches, placing the knife back at my throat as he leans in closer, threatening me with his proximity. Heat radiates from him like a vicious flame, making me sweat, the loudness of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of smoke nestled in his clothes. “You smoked before you got here.” 

“What?” 

“The cigs. I smell them on you.” 

“And what about it?” 

_I don’t know._

Maybe it’s the perverseness of it, maybe it’s the same reason I prefer the moon over the sun, maybe it’s because I'm addicted to fear, maybe it’s because I’m devoid of common sense like he said, but whatever it is, I want him. I want him _now._

A smart person would use this tiny distraction to run away as far as they can, but no one’s ever called me a savant. 

Taking a deep breath, I gather my composure to say, “You can put the knife down, okay?” 

He‘s amused. _I didn't think it was funny._ “But the way you act when I’ve got it right here,” he pauses to press it against the cut he made, and I wince, “really brings a smile to my face.”

“You’re a psychopath.” 

“Maybe.” The knife moves, _thank God,_ but that relief is short lived when he reaches up to my neck and lets his fingers settle against the sides, barely pushing into my skin. The simple sensation makes my knees buckle. “‘Least I’m not the one fuckin’ turned on by it.” 

“I’m _not_ turned on.” 

“And OJ didn’t kill his ex-wife.” 

He’s not looking at me, instead fixing his gaze on my neck, at the way his hand looks there, his tongue rolling over his pink lips. 

The knife glimmers in the corner of my eye before it clatters against the pavement, calling my attention away from Ransom’s face. 

He doesn’t like it, and I can tell because he wraps my hair around a fist, and tugs backward, making my head bang into the brick wall. A headache starts to form, numbing the tips of my ears, sending a chill down my neck as I turn my attention back to him. The position he has me in is uncomfortable to say the least: my head’s craned backwards, neck nestled under his palm. 

“I’d wreck you,” he says, breaking the silence finally, looking into my eyes. I swallow.

“You get off to that? Thinking about how you’d wreck me? What, like you’re gonna kill me or something?” Now I’m thinking about the way he gets off. 

Pumping his cock with his fist, his head thrown back, eyes closed in bliss. I can almost see his face in my head as he does it, and it makes me high. _And sick._

“Nah,” he says, moving in impossibly close, until his lips hover just above mine, centimeters from brushing against them. “For any other man, I’d ruin you.” My mouth goes dry, goosebumps peppering my skin. He can probably feel them on my neck. 

“Is that right.”

He flexes his fingers, forcing them into the sides of my throat. _Shit._ I reach out for him, that hot feeling all over coming right back, making me squeeze my thighs together. _Shit, shit, shit._

His hoodie is soft under my fingertips, once again combating the roughness of his torso. I shouldn’t be touching him. I should be running away, getting the fuck out of here, but… 

“Yeah. ‘Cause I’d give you exactly what you crave. The fear. That’s it, isn’t it?” 

“No.”

“Really?” I shake my head, but he doesn’t get discouraged, instead moving into me again, putting his lips right against mine. They’re touching, but we’re not kissing, and it makes my skin tingle, my heart thudding in my chest. “I wonder how those lying lips would look wrapped around my cock.” _Oh, God._ My gaze flickers down almost on instinct, and I know that’s what he was going for. 

I swallow. 

He kisses me, once, his eyes not closing, and my heart jumps up into my throat. _Why do I_ like _this?_ My skin burns, a match inside of me igniting as I kiss him back, fisting the hair at the base of his neck to bring his lips to mine. 

He’s rough, and hard, and robbing me of every bit of air that graces my lungs, sucking it out of my mouth, but making sure I can’t get any breaths with the hand around my neck. I whine when he presses firmer, and it makes him groan, a noise that starts in his gut and rumbles against my body. 

“You’re been thinkin’ about me, haven’t you?” Our lips part when he nudges my head to the side with a thumb, the grip on my throat still unrelenting as his kisses, depraved and rapacious, travel down my chin. 

“Fuck you.” Chuckling, he hooks my legs around his waist before he thrusts his hips, slamming me into the wall, and I can feel his bulge through his slacks against my pussy. _Oh, fuck._

“What makes you harder?” I whisper-hiss, tightening my thighs around his solid torso, still fucking down into his hips. “The arguing, or the violence?” 

“Making you shut the fuck up.” 

“You’re not very good at it.” He thrusts again, then again, _and again,_ our bodies slamming together haphazardly, the friction on my clit damn-near overwhelming as I clasp to his firm body for solace. His forehead clangs into mine, our lips hovering over each other with his deep and heavy breaths combatting my stuttered and shallow ones, almost as if our breaths are fucking. _Christ._

If this goes on for any longer, I’ll fucking fight him. “Just fuck me, dickhead.” 

That makes him chuckle, if only for a bit, before he drops one of my legs, leaving the other around his waist. He slides a hand down my stomach, snaking underneath my underwear. A husky laugh escapes his lips when his fingers find the wetness pooled at my entrance, and spread it around my clit with slow, torturous circles. 

“You always get this wet when you think about me?” I shake my head, ignoring him, hypnotized by the movement of his hand, until he grips my throat again, and it makes me wetter. Hotter. _Electric._

“Fuck you.” My toes curl in my shoes, hands balling into fists when he teases my entrance, pressing his fingers right there, before he gives it to me. 

“ _Shit,”_ I hiss, my mouth parting in a silent moan when he sinks a finger inside of me, just one, sliding it back and forth until a second joins, and I almost fall. His pace is teasing, _not fucking surprising,_ but _goddamn_ is it excruciating. _“Fuck.”_

His fingers are working magic, thick inside of me, fucking in and out, and in and out, not stopping even when I push on his wrist, desperate to outrun the pleasure, but not wanting him to ever stop. 

He hits that sweet spot inside of me, hooking his fingers, and groaning when he realizes he’s found it. I whine, bucking my hips up into him, riding his hand. “There, _there, God,_ right _there_.”

“You’re so easy.” _Yeah, fuck him._

“I’m... _Not.”_ He laughs at me before moving faster, making my moans, whimpers, incoherent babbles that much harder to control. Every nerve in my body is on edge, vibrating at his touch, begging me to just _fall apart,_ but there's no telling the boost to Ransom’s ego something like that would give. 

There’s nothing loving about his lips on my jaw, licking, tasting, biting, as his fingers fuck me, the little jolts of pain melting together with the pleasure that makes my belly clench, and sends waves coursing through my body. He tugs on my hair to pull my head to the side, teeth grazing my skin as a burn sears across my scalp. His lips move back to the thin cut, tongue swiping over again, the stinging sensation bringing me right to the edge.

Tension swells in my body, the coil in my stomach tightening, and tightening, and _tightening._ The heel of his hand brushes over my clit just as his teeth graze my neck, and the coil unwinds, pleasure erupting through my veins as he brings me to orgasm.

“Oh my… _God,_ Ransom,” I choke out. “Fuck, uhh… _fuck._ ” 

He doesn’t stop until I come down, panting and trying to catch my breath, feeling the emptiness his fingers leave behind when they slide out of my pussy. The haziness from my high starts to fade, trading a euphoria I’ve been repressing for years for the sickness that bubbled up in my stomach earlier. 

“Get the fuck off of me.” I shove him backward and go for the knife, tossing it much further away in case he decides to try something else. Fixing my skirt, I head back inside the bar to finish cleaning up, hoping he won’t follow me, but he does. “Leave me the fuck alone.” 

He sniffs. “So wishy-washy. No _‘thank you?’_ Seemed pretty grateful with the way you were moanin’ my name—”

“Go to hell.”

“Look who’s angry now. What happened to your little search for an adrenaline rush, huh? What? Too fuckin’ scary for you?” _I should fucking hit him._

“Something is seriously wrong with you.” 

_Oh, my God. I’m a goddamn idiot._

I don’t know what I saw in him, if anything—maybe my boredom was giving me hallucinations, or some stupid shit—but this person I’m talking to right now? 

There’s no doubt in my mind that he would’ve killed me. 

And yet, I got _high_ off it. 

I let him make me come. I _wanted_ him to make me come. 

This isn’t my first time doing this shit. 

It’s always been the feeling—the winning, the bubbles I’d get in my chest, the excitement in almost getting caught, the desire for something greater each time. It makes my chest heave, makes my bones feel alive, makes my blood pump in the most exquisite way. 

_It turns me on._

_God. Damn. Idiot._

He stops my movement when he grasps my wrist in a hand, forcing me to look at him. “You’re not some pristine princess, Quinn: newsflash. You’re _fucked_ _up_. The way you do shit isn’t normal _._ Don’t act like you’re fuckin’ above me.”

“Let me _go_.” I snatch my arm away from him, rubbing away the redness that started to form. He looks down the bridge of his nose at me, throat flexing, then unflexing when he swallows. _Fuck him._

I slap him. 

Then I do it again. 

My hand cracks across his jaw, stinging when I recoil to nurse it in my other palm. His face twists with anger— _satisfaction, even—_ as he lets out a few dry chuckles, petting his reddening cheek with cautious fingers.

He snarls and before I can blink, his lips are on mine, hand around my neck, squeezing the everliving _fuck_ outta me, and I feel drunk all over again, scratching and clawing at his clothes, his skin, panting into his mouth as he growls into mine, biting and sucking on my lips. He tastes like… _I don’t know._ Something good, something bad, something I shouldn’t be fucking having, but fuck, _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel like everything I’ve been chasing, the culminations of my feeble efforts for the past seven years all in one. 

_This is not good._

I shove him away from me. 

“Get out.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as I gesture to the door, throwing my hand in its direction. 

“Just get the fuck out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for readinggggg  
> leave a comment if u want or whateva


	7. Hugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little bit angsty, a little bit dramatic, a lot of quinn doing something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: Acting Out, Acting Up

#####  _goddamn my spinning head_

#####  _decisions that made my bed_

#####  _now i must lay in it_

#####  _and deal with things i've left unsaid_

##### ~ "Makes Me Wonder" by Maroon 5 ~ 

###  _— Quinn —_

**July 2017**

Dull. Numb. Dead. Frozen. 

_Stupefied._

_I like that one._

Maybe Ransom's sleeping problem is contagious. 

I don't know what's wrong with me. 

For the past few weeks, life has felt different than what I'm used to. Typically, it's: wake up, drag myself out of bed, do my good deed for the day— _to keep myself grounded—_ then find something else to get into, but lately, it's been _nothing._

I've even considered keeping the things I've lifted off of people just to feel _something,_ but the idea of that brings a sickness to my stomach I can't seem to shake. Don't get me wrong—I've been close, teetering on the edge as I clutch a wallet or a watch for the last time, the miserable thoughts in my mind begging me to walk away, and start up a wayward collection in my apartment, but that feeling that settles in my chest tugs on my heart just enough for me to reconsider. 

It'd be a stone I'd be unable to turn back over. 

Right now, I'm sitting on my bed with one of Harlan Thrombey's books nestled under my palms: _A Kill for All Seasons_. I haven't been able to put it down. 

It's good. _It's damn good,_ despite being eight-hundred pages, and it's damn-near _impossible_ for me to believe Ransom is related to someone who wrote something as fucking good as _this._

_Ransom._

Ransom is another goddamn problem. 

I haven't been to work in three weeks—which, sure, might be _three nights,_ and I still co-own the goddamn place, but I can't bring myself to go there. Because I know he'll be there. I know he'll be looking for me, but I don't know what he'll do _if he sees me._

Last month when he stopped by, things got… _heated._

I lost control. 

The simple thought of that moment behind the bar has me setting down the book to stare at the wall, trying to shelve the dreams of his words, his body, his lips, his _fingers—the way he grabbed me, his hand around my throat…_

_Jesus Christ._

Shivers roll through my body as I tap at the hair-thin wound on my neck for the _twelve-thousandth time,_ finding it's almost completely gone. A tiny peek in the gold, floor-length mirror in my bedroom shows it's not visible anymore, and it barely was in the first place. I don't like the way that makes me feel. 

_Empty. Distant. Confused._

A chill runs up my spine, and I have to smooth my clothes to calm myself. I press into the scar again, dragging my nail harshly against the line, imagining the feel of the knife just barely piercing my skin, as well as that erratic, _unhinged_ look in Ransom's eyes. 

It's the same thing I saw in him firstly, the same thing he was working so diligently to push down. If you ask me, it seems uncharacteristic for a man like _that—_ dripping with privilege—to apologize for anything, yet he did that one time. 

_"I shouldn't have done that."_

_Why not?_

It's confusing. He's complicated, and I hate that I haven't been able to stop thinking about him for this long. 

It's my own fault, I know. My stupid-ass drive to get him to act out—and I knew he would—has been kicking my ass lately, a blissful blend of idiocy and vehement feelings I haven't felt in a long time. 

I wonder, does he have the same urges as I? That nagging feeling to act out, _to misbehave,_ to do whatever the hell you want, whenever the hell you want with no regard for anyone or anything else? 

_He has to._ He wouldn't have acted the way he did if he didn't have those urges. 

My stomach churns, but not in a bad way—in a sinful, _electric_ way, the more I think about it—like something is stirring inside of me, waking up for the first time in forever, begging me to seek out more and more from him. _Insatiable._

My body wants to drag my soul down with it, and I don't know if I have the willpower to stop it anymore. The tide is receding—has been for a long time now—and I wanna ride the monstrous wave awaiting me. 

_Fuck._

I scratch my arms to keep myself moving, pacing the distance between my bed and bay window to ease the war going on in my mind. I'm supposed to have a shift in two days, but I don't know if I'm up for it. I don't know what I'll do if I see him again. 

I don't know how my body will react. 

_Yes, I do._

I fish through my drawers for a lighter and a joint, _even though I don't have a headache,_ and smoke enough to make me giggly. Sitting back down, I bounce my leg on the edge of my bed, nibbling on my thumb knuckle, keeping myself busy. 

Pulling my wrist into view, I study my palm and imagine how my hand whipped across his face, and the dull, stinging pain it left behind. His lips curled up in that little smile before he _growled_ at me, and his mouth was on mine again. I keep replaying that. That primal sound, that flash of a bright, orange flame behind his cold eyes, that anger that took over his face. _Over, and over, and over._

_Oh, God._

I squeeze my legs together, squirming in my place as I fall to my bed, forcing my back into the plush, forest green comforter. 

A part of me thinks this is what he wants—thinks this is the same reason he wanted to get all those girls' numbers, but had no intentions of keeping them. Maybe to him, I'm some sort of sick, twisted game, and even though he couldn't know for certain I'm thinking about him, I am. 

If this _is_ a game, does that mean he's won?

Or, do his little outbursts of anger mean _I've_ won? 

I don't know. 

All I know is the idea of that has been buried in the crevices of my mind for the past few weeks, burrowing under any coherent thoughts, making itself a home. He made me _feel_ something, something different, something terrible, and I'm _still_ feeling it. 

Maybe my problem is the lack of control. I need to regain it somehow. Show him he hasn't won against me, show him that even though I let— _wanted—_ him to do to me what he did, it doesn't mean he's won. It doesn't mean he has a leg up on me. _Maybe that's just the weed talking, though._

Maybe I'm just desperate to feel like that again, even though I already know it'll be a glaring mistake. 

Maybe, to get this bullshit out of my system, I need to stop pushing it down and scratch the itch that is _him_. Until it bleeds, bruises, blisters, _whatever,_ until I can go back to normal, and come down from this _high_ for good.

Maybe I'm lying to myself, so I can _finally_ get into something I won't be able to undo. 

And maybe, _just maybe,_ I want that. 

— + — 

"Hi, is this Thrombey Real Estate?" 

"Yes. How may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to report a problem with an employee." 

— + —

A quick survey of Mrs. Thrombey's desk shows me _not much._ She has just about everything put away, filed in neat little stacks that line the teal walls of her office. The only things that rest on the long, reasonably wide glass surface are a few scattered cylinders with a myriad of colored pens, and a tiny, decorative glass bowl with a pack of Malboros and a gold Zippo lighter. _I see it runs in the family._

Still staring, observing, _I guess,_ I sit down in one of the chairs and wince, shifting to try to get comfortable. _The shit is hard as a rock._

"Linda, darling. Nice to meet you." She reaches out a hand to me as she sits in her cushy, leather chair— _lucky—_ crossing one leg of her deep red pantsuit over the other. 

"Eve." I look down at her hand, then back up at her, plastering on a fake smile. _I'm not shaking that shit._

Clearing her throat, she withdraws and thrums on the edge of the desk with her thumbs. "Right. What seems to be the problem? Janet told me you had an altercation with an employee…?" 

"Um, yes. I went to a showing last week by some man—"

"Richard?"

"Maybe. Do you have a picture of him?" 

"Richard?! Come here, please!" 

A fairly tall guy saunters in, holding a bowl across his chest, fingers dipping into a mass of borderline neon yellow popcorn. _Okay…_

"Put that away!" He does. He sets it right down atop one of the file cabinets lining the walls, no hesitation, wiping the butter around his mouth with a flippant hand. 

"Sorry, sorry. Who's this?" 

"Him?" Linda says, waving her pen up and down the length of his body as she tips her glasses down. 

"No, no. This guy was younger…" I take a deep breath, warring with myself. 

_Dare I say it?_

I think I do. 

"Early thirties, late twenties maybe. Said his name was _Hugh,_ I think." 

"Hugh," Linda parrots, nibbling on her bottom lip. I have to fight to keep the smile off my face. 

" _Hugh,"_ Richard chimes in, smacking his chest as he chokes down a few kernels, I guess, swinging into view beside Linda with a hand in his pocket, the other still clutching his chest. "Hugh. Hugh Drysdale." 

"Yeah. _Yeah!_ Hugh Drysdale. That's the fella."

"And he was showing off a house."

"Yes, yes. Tons of people were there—maybe around fifteen, twenty. My husband and I expressed interest in buying that property in Cambridge, y'know," I clear my throat, _"the one for eleven-k a month?"_ Their eyes light up, then immediately widen, excitement painting their faces. I nod. 

"See, Robert has been wanting to upgrade, settle down, start up a family, and we felt that would truly be the place, but after the shenanigans we experienced yesterday…" Swaying my head from side to side, I clutch my chest and choke back the fake tears threatening to stain my cheeks. " _God,_ just…" 

Richard spins around, looking like a cat in a cartoon chasing his tail before he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He fiddles with it for a second, shoving the bright screen in my face, a picture of none other than Ransom plastered across it. "Hugh. This Hugh, yes?" 

"Yes!" I clap. "Yeah. He was dressed super dapper, had everything put together. We assumed he was a professional—as, of course, we've seen your ads on TV—but there was a bong left in the bathroom, and his decorum was rather disrespectful. Swear words left and right, vulgar language, insults at all these kind people…" Shivering, I hide my mouth under my hand and turn my face, disguising the laugh I can no longer hold back as Richard gasps, storming out of the office after a short but stern glance at Linda. _Hmm._

"I just want a good place for little Roger," I rub my stomach, "to grow up, you know?" A tear falls from my eye on cue, and Linda's face tells me everything I need to know. _Jackpot._

She reaches across the desk to grasp my hand in hers, patting the top of my wrist. When she pulls back, she steeples her fingers and taps them against her pursed lips, eyebrows doing a little dance atop her head. "I am so sorry, Missus…"

"Arden. Eve Arden." Linda nods with an open mouth, until she chews on the tip of her pen, tapping it against her teeth. For some reason, that makes me cringe.

"Missus Arden. I'm so sorry you had to experience that. My son, he's…" _A pain in the ass? Yeah. Hard agree._ "...A little troubled. We've been trying to induct him into the business for months now, but he's always pushing back against us. It's been so hard—" 

"Um," I start, cutting her off. "Are you… Are you saying he _doesn't_ work here?" 

"No, no."

"Oh. Well… Where…?" I start shaking my head as panic bubbles in my chest, goosebumps sprouting on my skin, the same feelings I got before I came here coming back in full. It's addicting. 

_Oh, my God, it's_ **_addicting._ **

I figured this would all be a slap on the wrist for him or even a deft little way to see him again— _I sound stupid—_ but if he doesn't even _work_ here, what does this mean for him? 

Trouble? Immense fallout? Being disowned by his own parents? 

_Why do I care?_

What does it mean for _me?_

The idea settles the panic in my chest, trading it for a sick type of sweetness that sends chills rolling through my body. This is it. I'm light, and airy, and floating, full of a blend of frightful ecstasy and anxiety that feels like a drug, almost better than the weed. 

_Yes._

"It just… It seems pretty ridiculous that he'd parade around acting like he works here if he doesn't, y'know?"

"Yes, Eve. I agree. That's what my trouble is right now. Richard's out there on the phone with him, and if you give him fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, he could be down here, and we could solve this all right now. _Easy_. And you can put in an offer for that wonderful place in Cambridge if you'd like." _Oh, my God._

_I should get out of here._

My legs won't work, though, and I'm fucking glued to this uncomfortable-ass seat, just staring at Linda with my mouth agape. 

"Mrs. Arden? Are you okay?" 

_Never better._

"Where did you say he worked?"

"He doesn't." She waves her hand. "Richard. Richard!" 

"Yes, honey?" 

"Is he coming?" 

"Said he'd be here in thirty minutes." 

_Oh, God. Oh, God, ohgodohgodohgod._

"Well, Mrs. Arden...” Linda rises to her feet, planting a hand on her desk as she pulls out a cig from the pack, nursing the lighter in her other palm. "...Hugh lives just outside of Boston on the other side of town, so he'll only be a minute. I'll get the papers so we can get started on your new homeownership, yes?" 

I nod, and I really shouldn't be nodding, but that's what makes it so fun. I should be breaking the fuck outta here, but all of me wants to see what's going to happen.

"I'll need to discuss it with my husband. So…" I swallow the growing lump in my throat, pushing down the urges to jump up and leave. None of the information I gave them was viable. They don't know— _won't_ know who I am. Not unless they see my face again, which they _shouldn't._ It's just _fun._ The consequences are null. 

_But would I care if they weren't?_

"Of course, of course, dear. We can pick up with that tomorrow. Now…" She heads toward the door, jiggling the handle. I don't turn to face her. "...Should I get you some chamomile tea while you wait?" 

_I think I could use a stiff drink._

"Coffee. Black coffee sounds wonderful right now." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u wanna leave comments/feedback or whatever, that’d be greatly appreciated! thank you if you’ve made it this far <3<3<3


	8. Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some fuckin'. y'know.

##### a _flood of blood to the heart, and the fear slipstreams_

#####  _breathe in, exhale_

#####  _i've poked a nerve; he'll slap me like a whale_

##### ~ "Bloodflood"by alt-J ~

### — _Ransom_ — 

Eve. _Eve Arden._

It can't be. It can't be fuckin' Quinn _again._ It can't. 

It probably is. 

I hop into my white Mustang, speeding down the roads to rush to my mother's office, curious to see if my suspicions are correct. 

_A fucking showing in fucking Cambridge for a fucking mansion._ That's what she pinned me for. 

I gotta say, the girl's intelligent, and did her fuckin' research. That place in Cambridge _is_ on the market right now—it's all my parents have been talking about for the past few months—and they've had _enormous_ trouble selling it. _Probably 'cause it looks like a shithole._

Do I look like a bong guy? _How would she know I have a bong?_

_Huh._

Sure enough, by the time I pull up to Thrombey Real Estate, the front is packed with hopeful couples waiting for their first family home. _Imagine that: having hope._

I push through the lobby, heading straight to my mother's plush office in the very back, barely stifling my smile when I see those long-ass braids cascading behind the end of the chair where she sits. _Quinn._

_Naturally._

"Son, we get it, okay?" my father starts, rising to his feet, scratching the back of his head. _Why so nervous?_ I think it's funny. "You don't want to join the business. That doesn't mean you have to fu— _screw—_ with everything we've built. Why waste time…" _Blah, blah, blah._ I got the rundown on the phone. I don't need it again. 

Tuning him out, I stalk in further and shut the thin wooden door behind me to lean against it, folding my arms over my chest. Quinn peers over her shoulder as my father drones on, my mother peppering in little comments when she feels the need to co-sign. 

I can't really read this look on her—mouth cocked to the side, nibbling on the inside of her cheek, eyes peering up at me. Maybe she's the nervous one, but then again, I'm almost certain no one was forcing her to stay all this time, waiting for me to show up. _Right._

She probably wanted me to show up, _the masochist._

Probably wanted to see what would happen. 

But I haven't really decided how I'm gonna react yet. 

When done, my father tsks, resting on the edge of my mother's desk with a languid sigh. "Mhm," I mumble, clicking my tongue. 

"That's all you have to say?" 

"Mhm." I nod. "Yeah. I was bored." I take the seat next to Quinn, crossing my ankle over my knee and leaning back in my chair to stretch. Still not having said a word, she averts my gaze, looking down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with the tip of her shoe. 

A glance at my mother shows she's trying— _and failing—_ to conceal the growing anger on her face, her nostrils flaring, knuckles whitening as they grip the edge of her desk. "No apology?" she grits out, cocking her head to the side, forcing a smile. 

I shrug. "Sorry."

"Not to me. To _her._ " She wags her finger at Quinn. 

"She's not even lookin' at me, ma." 

" _Ma?!"_

"That's what you are if I'm not mistaken." 

"We talked about this."

"Oh my _God._ " I roll my eyes. "You get her to look at me, and then I can apologize to her face, a'ight?"

"Eve, sweetie?" Quinn looks up at me, a warm, _deceiving_ smile painted across those fuckin' plump lips as she licks them, cocking her head to the side. 

_"I'm so, so sorry…"_

"Thank you, Ransom—"

"...That you had to come down here and deal with their bullshit for the past, what, hour?" 

"Ransom!" 

"I'm just bein' genuine." 

My mother goes to speak again, but Quinn stops her: "It's fine, Linda. Really." She turns to me, placing a hand over the arm of my chair. "Thank you. I've been struggling. I kept thinking about what you did, and…" She nibbles on her bottom lip as I quirk an eyebrow, failing to stop the single chuckle that falls past my lips. 

_Thinking about what I did, huh?_

"...And it's been making me lose sleep. Tossing and turning. My mind's been so cloudy, y'know? I've felt numb since." 

I swallow and turn my attention back to my mother, smiling. I don't know how to convey to you the satisfaction this is giving me right now.

I visited the bar every Saturday since that day in June, and not once had Quinn been working. At some point, I figured I might as well just ask Mikey what was going on, but he attempted to convince me that Quinn had come down with the flu. 

_Y'know, the flu with symptoms that persist for three weeks, obviously._

I guess I get it now, her search for something that'll fix her boredom. 'Cause heaven knows I've been going to the ends of the earth in search of shit that'll fix mine, with absolutely no fucking luck. _I can't pickpocket, though, so there's that._ You'd think she'd wanna get as far away from me as possible after what I did— _whatever the fuck I did_ —but _nope._ Here we are again, and I don't know what the fuck to make of it. 

I press my hand to my cheek, feeling the ghost of where her hand whipped across my face. _Twice._

I won't lie; it made me hard as a rock, and I was _already_ going home with blue balls after she fuckin' ran away from me. 

"Well. Would you look at that." I go to stand up, but Richard thinks it's a good idea to press firmly on my shoulder, trying to get me to sit back down. A glare knocks him off, but I stay in my place, waiting for the inevitable backlash. 

Sure, the silver lining is that Quinn has been _thinking about me, whatever that means,_ but _still_. Here I am, about to get my head knocked off because… _because what?_ What did she think this would _do?_

"Eve, honey, I hope that suffices for you… Ransom— _Hugh,_ can be a little difficult sometimes, but he's got a heart of gold underneath it all. We are so sorry for any inconvenience." _Heart of gold, sure._

"Oh, no problem, Linda. Truly, I just couldn't live with myself leaving things the way they were left last week. It shook me to my core, but now that Hugh's apologized, I think I'll be on my way. I'll be sure to send Robert down here tomorrow to discuss prices and a downpayment. Of course." 

"That is so great to hear, darling! Thank you for doing business with us!" 

— + —

"Thinkin' about me," I say, trotting down the corridor away from my mother's office, hot on Quinn's tail. In a foreign move, my parents agreed to have this _'discipline'_ conversation at a later date as my mother was _'too shaken up to think straight.'_

_Yeah, okay._

"Thinking about the fake house showing you did last week, yes." 

"Haven't seen you in about a month." 

She stops in her path, throwing her head over her shoulder, and narrowing her eyes. "So you _have_ been looking for me."

"I never said I wasn't." I tsk in tandem with the sound of my footsteps against the floor a few times before it settles in: "No way," I chuckle. "You've been askin' Mikey about me, haven't you?" 

"I never said I wasn't."

"Well, he sure did." That catches her attention, and she turns around with both hands on her hips, gesturing for me to continue. "Said you had the flu when he went over to 'discuss the books' with you or some shit. I don't fuckin' know. But I asked about you here and there, and the fucker lied to me."

"Really?"

"Really." 

"Hmm. Okay." She makes her way to the front of the lobby, and pushes past the front door, her hair waving in the wind behind her back. I guess it's gotten irritating, though, because she pulls it up into a lopsided bun to get it out of her face. "Well?"

"Well, _what."_

"Aren't you coming?" 

" _Coming…_ " She shrugs. 

"I assume you had more to say than that. You're just staring at me."

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

"I didn't get that far." _Of course she didn't._ "Doesn't matter. I'm going home. Do _not_ follow me. That isn't an invite."

_Sure._

— + —

"So you're a stalker, now. Good to know." Quinn smacks into me as she walks past, smiling with her head tilted to the side. I follow her into her apartment complex, padding up the first flight of stairs that precedes the mailroom. She checks her mailbox to find it empty and shrugs. "What is it you want from me? I'm boring." 

"You're bor _ed_ , not bor _ing_." 

"Oh, so I'm exciting, then?" She rolls her eyes before climbing the stairs, all ten flights of them, humming some song I don't recognize. 

When we get to her apartment door—the _penthouse,_ I might add, which I can safely say I was _not_ fucking expecting—she scoffs as she turns around to face me. 

"You dropped this." She tosses my wallet at my chest, smiling as it smacks me, then hits the ground with an almost satisfying _thump. Three for three._ I could fucking burn this place to the ground. 

"I don't know if your plan is to keep following me, maybe you'll murder me— _God, that'll be a fun ride, won't it?_ I don't have asthma, though. So, guess you'll have to put your brain to work to figure something else out." She shakes her head, getting back on topic: "But I'm going inside my home, now." 

Unlocking it, Quinn shoves her door open and stumbles inside. I go to follow behind her, but she stops me. "And, _no,"_ a finger stabs into my chest, "that _still_ isn't an invite." 

Ignoring her, I push past her and the door anyway, taking a look around her apartment. 

It's large, with a floor plan a tad bit more open than mine, as the kitchen isn't walled off from the living room. Plants litter just about every corner and wall, housed in pots that are either varying shades of dark green or stark white. The lights she flicks on are a warm yellow, barely illuminating _anything_. 

She shuts the door behind us, her keys jingling when she tosses them down. 

"You live _here_." It's not a question. It's disbelief. 

There's a big, open window overlooking the city, cars passing by down below as I stalk closer—no way she could afford a view like this. 

"Yep." 

"Working once a week at that bar."

"I make five-hundred dollars working Saturdays, plus the hourly wage. Not to mention the fact Mikey and I own it, and his parents are loaded, so…" I turn to face her. "Why? Does that surprise you?" 

"No." 

She backs up as I draw closer, footsteps falling against the floor, _thud-thud, thud-thud,_ until her back slams into the wall, trapped. "Why today?" I say, pressing a hand into the wall to block off an exit. She eyes the side I don't have caged in, gaze darting to my left, then back. 

"Why _what_ today?"

"You said to come back before closin'. Then you just stopped showin' up. Now, here you are. Fuckin' with me again."

"Your accent is really heavy." 

"Stopped tryin' to hide it." 

"Hmm." She bites her bottom lip, cocking her mouth to the side. "Kinda like it." _Huh._

"Y'know, I bet you think it's cute that you went and pulled that little stunt—"

"It _was_ cute." 

"—But that's gonna be held against me until the day those assholes die. You know that?"

"I do _now_." 

"Why."

"I like seeing the way you'll react. And if you're so _frustrated,_ then do something about it." 

_She thought it would make me mad._

_Oh my God, I should've fuckin' guessed that._

You'd think I'd be well irritated by this stupid-ass game she keeps playing with me, but I'm not. _I'm not._ I honestly can't give less of a fuck anymore, and I don't know what the hell to contribute it to. She wants this from me, this anger, I guess, and maybe it's fucked up that I'm starting to _like_ that, but I'd be a goddamn liar if I said I wasn't. 

Pressing closer, I scan her face up and down, letting my eyes drag across the length of her body, until my hand launches up to her neck, fingers creeping toward the back. She gasps, jaw stuttering open, then closed, until her eyes dart down to my wrist, and she starts smiling.

Yeah. 

_Smiling,_ until that smile morphs into a laugh, a breathless one where her teeth roll over her bottom lip. It irritates me, but my cock throbs at that, making me shift in my stance. 

I squeeze, albeit _lightly_. _"What?"_ she spits, enunciating the _t._ Her neck fits perfectly, snugly underneath my grip, right in the palm of my hand as I flex my fingers, keeping them loose around her, just admiring the way my hand looks there. It makes my cock strain against my slacks. "You think you're gonna _ruin me?"_

There's a daring look in her eyes, one I can't help but test the limits of. 

"I think you wanna be ruined, Quinn," I whisper, dropping my voice, leaning in closer to her. She stumbles, her shoulders banging against the wall when I shove her backward, thin fingers from her dainty hand gripping my wrist. 

Voice strained, she says, "What makes you say that?" It crawls out of her throat, and I can feel her neck flexing, tensing under the pads of my fingers as she struggles for air. My abs clench at those cheeks stained with a rosy pink, eyes bleeding tiny, torrential tears from their corners, wicked, wayward smile infecting her plump, almost purple lips. 

"Explains what you did today, doesn't it?"

"Maybe I just wanted payback for the trauma you caused."

"You got off to it." She furrows her brows. 

"You don't know a thing about me." Her voice is louder when she says it, almost like I've finally hit a nerve. 

Silently hoping that's true, I watch her face, her throat bobbing against my palm when she swallows thickly. Her chin keeps tilting up, onyx colored eyes never leaving mine, until her lips hover underneath me, testing me. "I know enough, sweetheart," I say through gritted teeth, trying to resist the urge to fuck her right now, right up against this wall. 

"Don't call me sweetheart."

Ignoring her, I loosen my grip to let her breathe, then tighten it again, almost groaning at the way her smile returns. _Almost_. 

"It does, y' know," she whispers, voice nearly inaudible. "Turn me on. You." She looks me up and down. _"This."_

Forcing down the lump that spawns in my throat, I bring my free hand to her face, letting my palm settle against her cheek before my thumb strokes over the space just below her eye. She flinches, and I smile, knowing this is probably too tender for her, even though my hand is still around her throat. "What do you want from me?"

Her body comes alive, a wire left dormant for too long, as those words flit past my lips. Her tits heave up and down, brushing against my pecs as her breathing quickens, spiderwebs of red sprawling, climbing up her throat from the pressure of my hand. "The problem is," she says, gripping my wrist, fingernails digging into my skin, "I shouldn't want it from you. 'Cause I know you'll give it to me." 

"You sound certain." I loosen my grip, but she _whines_ , a tiny noise that she's clearly tried and failed to stifle.

It makes my dick ache. 

"I wanna be a bad person," she whispers, grinning. _So dramatic._ I press harder into the sides of her tender throat, my eyes shooting down to her hand when she grips my wrist tighter, moaning. _Moaning._ I swallow. 

Weak mewls spill past those supple lips as she licks them, shaky, broken breaths sputtering from her lungs. The fight for air with this girl is beautiful, animalistic, _raw_ , and it brings something out in me that I can't fuckin' control. _Wouldn't even dream of trying._ Resisting the urge to palm my dick, I shift us to the side, to the desk by her doorway, lifting her up on top of the glass surface, my grip unrelenting. "And I see it in you, too—the want to be bad. To be selfish. Evil. Manipulative. Disgusting. Abhorrent. To take, and take, and take whatever you want, whenever you want—"

"And what do _you_ want, Quinn?" I mutter, letting my lips trace her skin, drawing a path from her chin to her cheek. She shakes her head, a little jolt from side to side. 

"I want the fear," she whispers, reaching down between us to fiddle with the buckle of my belt, yanking at it until it comes undone, "because it's addicting." I glance down at the way her hands work, pulling at the button of my pants, then the zipper, until she reaches the waistband of my boxers. "What would you do if I told you I wanted you to stop?" 

"I'd call you a fuckin' liar." I catch her earlobe between my teeth, biting down ever so slightly, relishing how she winces. 

"I don't want the guilt, y'know?" Tugging on my boxers, she works them off my hips, and down to the top of my thighs, grasping my cock in a single hand. My chest tightens, and I have to work doubly hard to regulate my breathing when she starts stroking, flicking her thumb at the bundle of nerves just under the tip. _Fuck._ "I've gotten so tired of it lately." 

I nod, nibbling and licking my way back to her mouth, jerking my hips up into her hand. "It's like… This little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me to do this, ‘n do that, do the right shit, but _fuck,_ I can't take it anymore. I can't." Gripping her hair in a hand, I yank backward to make her look up at me, and capture her lips in a kiss, burying my groans in her. She doesn't close her eyes, instead staring me down, moaning unabashedly into my mouth, teeth nipping at my bottom lip in between greedy licks at my flesh. 

"You can't handle me, y' know," she mumbles when we separate, using her free hand to guide my arm to her pussy, pushing her panties aside, anchoring her skirt above her hips. I don't know if that's supposed to be some type of plea or whateverthefuck, but… 

"You don't wanna be handled." I slide my fingers inside of her, and she hisses, gripping my wrist, pumping my fingers in and out when I don't move, hips fucking down into my hand. Her near-black eyes stare into mine, and the pit of my stomach burns, my cock aching, throbbing under the movement of her hand. 

"When you're somewhere, coupla months from now, lettin' some guy rail you on his waterbed," I say, "it's still gonna be my name coming outta your mouth when you come." 

"Do your worst." 

She's wet, _drenched,_ practically dripping, her walls trembling around my fingers when I roll my thumb over her clit, thrusting into her harder. "Look at that," I say. "Even wetter than last time." 

She whines, shifting us so she can get more comfortable before pulling out a gold foil from behind her and removing her hand from my cock to open it. "You shouldn't store condoms in your wallet, Ransom," she whispers, rolling the latex onto my dick, guiding me to her entrance. 

"The longest they stay there is a day, sweetheart."

"Don't call me—" Her breath hitches as I thrust inside of her, forcing our hips together, not waiting for her to catch her breath. _"Oh my God,"_ she growls, her legs shaking, face contorting as she snarls, panting and bucking her hips like an animal. My balls tighten at the sight, her pussy warm and wet, so snug around my cock, like a glove one size too small. I wiggle my hips to make sure I'm as deep as I can go, but even that is too much for her as she places a palm at the base of my stomach and pushes lightly. " _Jesus,_ slow down. Are you tryna kill me?" _Fuckin' hypocrite._

"When am I not?" I thrust forward, banging the table into the wall, making her gasp, but then moan gutturally, her hand falling to my hip, urging me to do it again. I do. Nodding, she grips the hem of my shirt and tugs, rutting her hips into mine. 

She leans forward, attempting to bury her face into my neck, hands stringing through my hair, but _no._ I'm not doing that bullshit. Not with her. Gathering her hair in a fist, I tug her head backward and press my forehead to hers. "Wanna watch you fall apart." She gulps, delicate throat bobbing as she nods, hooded eyes staring into mine. 

I start to move again, fucking in and out, watching for every expression that crosses her face. A crease develops in her brow when I hit right _there,_ her mouth falling open, a mewl spilling out. I drive my hips there again, and again, _and_ _again_ , reveling in the way she squeezes her thighs around me, her eyes barely staying open, looking absolutely fucked out. "Just admit it," I grunt. "You like me."

"I don't like you," she croaks. "I think you're hot, and I think you're an asshole, but _I don't like you."_ I hook her leg on my waist, pulling her to the edge of the desk to get a better angle. Those doe-eyes peer into mine, almost like she's begging me to move again, but I don't. I like seeing her like this. 

She whines, muttering, _"Asshole,"_ under her breath, smacking the side of my torso, but shutting up rather quickly when I thrust forward, relishing in the feel of her pussy. _So fuckin' tight._

The feeling damn-near rivals cocaine, and I don't know if it's 'cause I've wanted to get my hands on her since I first laid eyes on her, or if I'm still thinking about the way she slapped me a few weeks ago. 

_God, the way she slapped me._

The thought makes me fuck her harder, pounding into that wet, hot pussy, destroying it, _claiming it_ as all fuckin' _mine._ Maybe that's fucked up, maybe it's twisted, but I don't fuckin' care. She moans and mewls my name, wrecking the fuck outta my shirt, sliding her hands under the hem, scraping my chest with her razor-sharp nails. Streaks of white-hot pain are left in their wake, and my balls tighten. 

"Ransom—" I shush her with a lone kiss to keep myself distracted, nothing gentle about it, 'cause if I don't come soon, my balls are gonna fuckin' _riot_. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna— _please..._ " _Thank_ _God_. 

My abs clench at the way she says that that soft, almost broken _'please.'_ I slide a hand between us to stroke her clit, using the other to choke her again, pressing my fingers into the sides just enough to make it much harder for her to breathe. Her nails burrow into my back, probably leaving crescent-shaped imprints in their wake as she comes, unraveling, whining, panting, _gasping for air_ when I release her throat, her walls fluttering and spasming around my cock. " _Fuck, Ransom."_

 _"Shit,"_ I grunt out, feeling a swell of pleasure flood me, making parts of my body tingle that I didn't know could even tingle. A few more pumps of my hips and I spill into the condom, growling through my release, using the wall to make sure I don't collapse. 

Placing a hand on my shoulder, Quinn nudges me backward a bit as she pants out labored breaths, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. 

"That was great ‘n all," she says, "But I'm gonna need you to go."


End file.
